


Losing Control

by dexterous



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Andrew owns a flower shop, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Injury, M/M, Neil is basically a prostitute, Non-Consensual Drug Use, POV Andrew Minyard, POV Neil Josten, Protective Andrew Minyard, Sex Worker Neil Josten, Slow Burn, Smut, Soft Andrew Minyard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2020-12-15 00:04:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21024461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dexterous/pseuds/dexterous
Summary: Neil refused to believe the fluttery feeling in his chest was something as foolish as hope so he crumbled it up like loose paper and looked more fully at the man. This was not his father. This was a business transaction. This was a mutual arrangement, a temporary title. He promised himself he wouldn’t flinch.“We got a deal?”The story starts like this: Neil replaces hope for a key and pretends they aren’t the same thing.OR: Neil is a prostitute, Andrew is a regular, and shit hits the fan real fast.





	1. The Story Starts Like This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All warnings are in the tags.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

The story starts like this: There are many things Andrew hates about sex. Actually, there are many things Andrew hates in general but these become obvious and less obvious, depending on the company. Unwanted contact grates on the roof of his mouth like undissolved sugar. Unwanted and unexpected are synonyms, but most don’t know this.

In a past conversation, Betsy told him that his aversion to <strike>unexpected </strike>unwanted contact was quite obvious and Andrew replied,

_“Control, then.”_

_“Losing it or never having it in the first place?”_

_“Both.”_

_“So, what do you like? What are your boundaries?”_

_“You want a fucking map?”_

_“Someone might.”_

The story starts like this: There are many things Andrew likes about sex. Specifically, sex with boys. More specifically, sex with knots and thin wrists and zero obligations at the end of the night.

Given his traumatic past, Andrew guesses he’s lucky he can reach _any_ level of intimate contact with another person, no matter how limited. Drake left more than bloody wrists and horrible aches in his path. But given Andrew's tendency to move forward, always forward, Andrew still thinks he should be farther along by now.

Maybe that’s why he keeps coming back to this shithole.

Maybe if he weren’t so fucked up he could evolve to something better. Use this as a stepping stone, the first brick to take down from his many walls. Maybe he could find a nice guy and trust him – not just to keep his hands to himself, but to use them and use them right. Maybe this, maybe that. Andrew doesn’t give a shit.

This is a short-term solution to years worth of damage. He doesn’t know if Bee would be proud or not. He doesn’t think he’d care. 

There are many things Andrew hates but this bar is near the top of his list. He’s in the middle of Columbia on a Saturday night. There are bodies writhing on the dance floor, a few couples pressed against sticky walls. It’s, for lack of a better word, absolute trash. But Andrew doesn’t care.

“What can I get ya?” To anyone else, the bartender speaks to Andrew like any regular customer but the curl in his upper lip suggests he knows exactly why Andrew is here. 

“Shirley temple, strong, from the back.” It’s almost like he says these words every fucking time he comes to this shithole. It’s the only reason he comes to this shithole. And the shithole in front of him knows this.

The burley bartender, big and tatted, John or something, gestures him to follow back, behind the bar. Andrew keeps exactly three feet between them. They reach a private bathroom at the end of the hall and Andrew slips him two twenties before going inside.

There’s two stalls, one closed. Andrew can just make out brown hair and dirty sneakers between the slight crack of walls before he’s entering the open stall and closing it behind him. There’s a hole in the center of the stall.

“Yes or no?” It’s the same question Andrew asks every time – before he unzips, before the mysterious guy on the other side can slip to his knees.

“White Sneakers,” that’s the name he calls Andrew. Andrew doesn’t know what it is that makes his presence noteworthy enough to earn a nickname– maybe it’s because his dick is in this dude’s mouth every weekend.

“You weren't here last week, thought you found something better.” The voice is quiet with an edge of something else.

Andrew hums back and doesn’t move. They both know he’ll never find something better. They both know he’ll stay there all night until the brunette gives him an answer.

Andrew doesn’t know how the guy got started with this but since the first time Andrew found out about his… service, it was a pill of Xanax, a shot of tequila, a moment of relief. It was the equivalent of those drugs he ripped out of Aaron's bloodstream. Andrew is a fucking hypocrite.

‘Every now and then’ became every Saturday and every Saturday after that. They don’t know each other’s names or faces, but there’s a sturdy wall and a locked door and several hidden knives between Andrew and the guy – which is enough to get the job done. He can’t tell if he’s indulging his fears or not. He thinks the guy does this for fun. He doesn’t care.

There’s a shuffle, a squeak of sneakers, before he answers Andrew’s question, 

“Yes.”

It’s only then that Andrew unzips, turns toward the hole in the wall, and tilts the rest of his body against the surface.

Careful, rough hands take his member, gives a few hard jerks, before it’s completely engulfed in warm, wet heat. The guy on the other side never hesitates, never builds it up. It’s like going 0 to 95 on a highway. It’s rough and sloppy and so, so _fucking good_.

Andrew can barely suppress the hard intake he takes through his clenched jaw. _Shit, _it’s been too long. If Andrew believed in God, he’d compare the experience to heaven, other-worldly, or some other gay shit like that. For now, he jerks almost unnoticeably at every hard suction and rough twist.

Andrew rarely indulges himself with a reaction, mostly hard breaths and small twitches of his hips. Nonetheless, he finds himself reaching the edge of that cliff faster than usual. 

Andrew knocks his knuckles twice on the wall. It’s their small signal that he’s close. In response, the guy on the other side quickens his ministrations, sucking harder and faster than before. It’s not long before Andrew releases one suppressed groan with a final push of his hips.

Stall-guy uses some toilet paper to clean up Andrew’s front before Andrew slowly brings himself back to his side of the stall. He zips himself back up.

“Good?” The guy asks. It’s hesitant, unexpected. They usually don’t talk after the act.

Andrew trades his tongue for a truth.

“Yeah.”

He never sticks around long. He goes back to the bar, grabs a drink, and heads home for the rest of the night.

When Andrew enters his apartment at 12:16am, he can hear Aaron’s quiet breathing behind his cracked door. Unexpectedly, Nicky emerges from his room, rubbing his eye, and startling slightly at Andrew’s silhouette in the darkened living room.

“Hey,” his voice is rough and tired. He coughs once.

“Did you have a good night?”

The word, _good, _causes a reaction in Andrew that he did _not _want to evaluate in front of his cousin. So he brushes past Nicky without responding, opting to clean up in the bathroom instead. 

“Good talk!” Nicky calls after him.

It doesn’t take long for Andrew to wash up and crash on his bed.

It’s cliché and fucking stupid but shit. Andrew can’t stop thinking about next Saturday.

* * *

The story starts like this: Neil is a runaway. He’s a passing glance, an average guy. Some people grow as wallflowers – Neil works every day to make it so. Neil has been in his particular line of business for a couple of months now. The last time he saw his father, his mother was still alive and breathing panic down the back of his neck. The last time he saw his mother, he still loved long car rides and the smell of cigarettes. 

And now he’s disobeying every rule, every rushed word that ever tumbled out of her cold, dead lips. He’d be more inclined to follow them if they worked. And if they had worked, she would still be alive.

_Don’t stay in one place for more than a couple of days. _

_No relationships, no chasing skirts. These fucking bitches will rip out your heart and sell it to your father for mascara and a hair straightener. _

And yet, Mary followed every rule until they were carved into her lips from repetition alone. And yet, her skin was still peeled from the leather seat of a 2007 Toyota. Neil traded his mother's rules for a new path, one he'd make himself. Who’s to say what will keep you alive?

When Neil was first approached by the owner of the club, he had been dirty and homeless, stealing from some drunks at the bar and planning on leaving the next morning with his earnings. Drunks were always easy targets – slow, uncoordinated, unfocused, and utterly oblivious. 

But Neil was tired and sloppy. His throat felt tight, his body weak. It had been a couple of weeks since he properly slept or ate. He had dark circles around his eyes and his mother’s voice in his ear, screaming, _Blend in! Get out! Run! _

He wrapped his fingers around the wrong wallet and at the next moment, Hernandez had him against the wall. 

“Pretty fingers you got there. They match those pretty lips of yours too.” The way he spoke was more of an observation than a lustful comment but the feeling of an older man so close to Neil had his heart tripping over his ribcage. The man looked closer at Neil’s bloodshot eyes and panicked breaths before loosening his grip. 

“Listen, kid. I’m gonna set you down and we’re gonna have a long talk in my office, yeah? Think we can help each other out here.”

Hernandez spoke like a man and not a politician, which means he was a threat but not a manipulation. There’s a difference, his mother taught him. Refuse a man and he will hurt you. Refuse a politician and he could sweet-talk you to think differently. Either way they get what they want. Neil’s father is both.

How can you escape a politician? How can you escape a man? The best course of action is to hit when they least expect it and run. The next best is to play along… and then run.

This is why Neil followed Hernandez to the back of the club and into his office. He scratched exit strategies behind his kneecaps. His eyes flickered to every removable object and probable weapon. So when Hernandez sat him down and offered him a job, Neil was barely listening. He was already strung tight to smash the chair next to him into the owner’s head and bolt. The tension in his calves increased with every word.

Until –

“How about you stay in the room above the club? You look a little run-down there - when was the last time you slept in a bed, son? Had a hot meal? Our last guy left us a couple of days ago. It’s a studio so it’s nothing much but a pretty boy like yourself could make a couple hundred a week. Maybe eat some good food – you can have the club’s left-overs every night. No offense, boy, but you look like you got nothing to lose. This job is for people like yourself.”

He gave Neil a once-over, lingering on his frayed jeans, worn sneakers, and tattered jacket.

“It’s the best offer you’re gonna get around here, kid. We’re known for our, uh, _company_. I’m losing regulars, it's a business - you understand. You can leave whenever, just… think about it.”

And because Hernandez is a man and not a politician, and because his feet were blistered and achy, and because his body screamed for a rest, Neil paused wearily to consider the offer. There was no deception behind his words. Mary’s voice screeched curses in his ear. Neil shoved her aside. At this rate, he would drop dead from exhaustion before his father tracked him down.

Maybe he could stay a few weeks, get enough sleep and money to hitch to the next town and start over. Neil wouldn’t stay longer than two weeks.

Then Hernandez rested a bronze key on the desk in front of him. Neil refused to believe the fluttery feeling in his chest was something as foolish as hope so he crumbled it up like loose paper and looked more fully at the man. This was not his father. This was a business transaction. This was a mutual arrangement, a temporary title. He promised himself he wouldn’t flinch.

“We got a deal?”

The story starts like this: Neil replaces hope for a key and pretends they aren’t the same thing.


	2. The Coward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time since they started this, he gasps out,
> 
> “No.”

Make no mistake - Neil is always in control. For the first time in years, he has a place to sleep, food to eat, and cash for every few minutes of service. It’s something about what he does that gives him a power trip. Like the moment after a long run, when you’re breathless and elated – lungs filling with success, smile sharp with harsh intakes of freezing air.

Neil can make knees buckle with a simple twist of his tongue. He can make grown men moan and finish in less than a couple of hard suctions.

But perhaps the most addicting feeling of all was the simple notion that Neil is utterly and completely hidden.

When he’s not in his stall, Neil is eating leftover club food in his studio upstairs. When he’s not eating, he’s sleeping, thinking, counting cash, counting ceiling cracks, and imagining a different life with a different name.

There’s a tiny window that Neil opens to breathe fresh air. If he closes his eyes, he can visualize himself next to his mom in a moving car, window slightly cracked. If he closes his eyes, he can trade fear for relief and call it progress.

Neil is running on a record player, sitting on a hamster wheel, trapped in a time loop he refuses to leave. Make no mistake, this isn’t sad. This is _safety._

White Sneakers comes to his stall every Saturday at 10:30pm. Neil gets a lot of men on the weekends – he’s not sure how he’s advertised but he also doesn’t really care.

Before he started, a few ground rules by Hernandez were set in place. Mary’s rules floated to the forefront of his mind before Neil choked it down with a pillowcase. This is not like before.

_1\. Don’t speak. Many of the men like to envision a hot blonde with big tits and if you open your mouth to do anything besides what you were hired to do, we’ll lose business._

_2\. I handle the money and the clients. They have their own rules and won’t be any trouble for you. One blowie gets the club $10 and you $30. All under the table, all fair game. You want more money? Suck faster._

_3\. For the sake of your own safety, don’t swallow._

_4\. If you want to take this to the next level, let me know and we’ll open our other service upstairs._ (Neil never wanted to go any further and Hernandez never asked again).

Mary groomed Neil to follow her rules until her dying breath, but these were different. He had no problem obeying simple rules for a safe place. He traced the lining of the key over scars on his wrist.

But White Sneakers was always different. The first time he came in, he paused, as if taking in the lovely scenery of sticky floors and dirty walls. Neil noticed that it wasn’t the action of a man who does this regularly.

He then asked Neil directly,

“Yes or no?”

Neil startled for a moment, but collected himself quickly.

Remembering Hernandez’s rules, he didn’t say anything back, just lightly tapped on the stall and gently reached two fingers through the hole. Neil has long, bony fingers that could easily be considered feminine, if it weren’t for the thin, white scars in between cracks of his skin like filling the wrong spaces with cement. He hoped the man wouldn’t notice.

Neil’s actions were a clear sign of consent but the guy never moved. In fact, Neil would have thought he lost interest and left until he glanced under the stall and saw bright white sneakers, the kind too nice and too clean for a place like this.

Silence stretched between them like chewed gum. So against Hernandez’s wishes, Neil gnawed at the inside of his cheek and answered the guy’s question, softly and unsure,

“Yes?”

“Are you asking me or too dumb to understand the question?”

A flash of anger flared in Neil’s chest. _Arrogant asshole._

“Yes.” He said firmly, albeit somewhat sarcastically.

It was only then did the guy fit himself through the gap connecting their walls. In retaliation, Neil wasted no time with soft tugs or long licks. Instead, he swallowed him whole, sucking hard and fast. Most men would leave, pull back, even curse. If anything, White Sneakers pressed closer.

At one point, Neil gently scraped his teeth on the guy’s shaft. It earned him a soft hiss on the other side. If Neil were stupid, he’d think it was in pain.

When White Sneakers was done, Neil wiped his mouth and sat back, breathing heavier than usual. He thought the guy would make more conversation, maybe be more of an asshole. Instead, Neil heard some shuffling around before hearing the stall close behind his retreating footsteps.

Neil was almost positive he scared off the guy for good. But the following week, White Sneakers was back, asking the same question, and leaving without another word.

It was kind of a nice routine, in it’s own fucked-up way. He had never encountered someone so hell-bent on gaining verbal consent, even when Neil was already on his knees and waiting for him. White Sneakers was never rude or pushy or loud. It was an easy thirty dollars and just like the key in his pocket, Neil had another constant.

* * *

It’s 9:50pm on a Saturday. Neil is sitting in his office, which is the toilet of a backroom in a local bar. He’s recounting the wad of cash he keeps in his back pocket. Neil is safe but he’s also not stupid. He’s a loaded gun, the beginning of a sentence, a rabbit.

The door to the bathroom squeaks open. Neil places his money away just as someone fits himself in the stall next to him.

Neil knows it’s not White Sneakers because the guy unzips and shoves his member through the hole without preamble.

So Neil gets to work, softly sucking and licking while the stranger makes noises of encouragement.

“Yeah, baby… _fuck _girl you’re so good at this,”

Neil wants to roll his eyes but instead he sucks harder so the guy will finish faster and leave sooner. A few minutes pass with drawled moans and hard breaths before –

“Shit, _shit!” _

The man cums without warning and Neil just barely manages to dodge out of the way. The guy groans once more before retreating back to his stall.

“_Fuckkkk, _baby that was amazing,” There’s some shuffling on the other side. Neil moves back to his place on the toilet.

“Hey, girl… You wanna come home with me tonight? Get the full package?”

Neil freezes and doesn’t answer. Hernandez assured him that the men were prepped and understood the bar’s rules. Get in, get out, no small talk, no invitations. All business is always done by Hernandez. Neil sits in silence, hoping the guy will take that as a no and leave. Neil has never been lucky.

“Awe, c’mon baby, don’t be shy now,” The man is in front of Neil’s stall, he jiggles the door, “Bet you never saw a cock this big, huh?”

Neil’s heart stutters. Where is the bartender? Where is his courage? He whispers, “_Stop_.”

“What was that, darling? Come on,” The door shakes more violently, “You okay in there?”

“_No_,” he whispers. Fear is alive and freezing. Neil is a coward.

The guy chuckles, like this is game for him. This is a man and not a politician and Neil knows his lines, the next scene, the ending to this movie. Neil is a coward.

Suddenly the door wrenches open, the flimsy lock breaking and firing off to the side. The stranger is huge and terrifying. Even more so when his leery smile turns into a sneer of disgust, then pure dilated rage.

“_What the fuck_.”

He shoves himself more fully into the open stall.

“A fucking faggot? You getting your jollies off over here, you piece of shit?!” He grapples for Neil, meaty hands swinging towards his throat. The man is strong but Neil is fast as he lurches to the side and tries to slide past him to an opening, an escape, _anything_.

Neil doesn’t see the elbow that catches him across the head but he feels the knife that presses deep into his ribs.

Neil sucks in a sharp, shaky breath as he collides with the floor. He curls into himself and the man kicks him in the head. A glob of spit lands near Neil’s eye.

“Don’t say a fucking word about this to anyone, faggot or I’ll fucking kill you.”

The stall door slowly swings shut as Neil lies gasping for breath. There are black spots forming over his eyes but he shakily moves his body further into the stall. He feels blood well behind his hand and Neil softly thumps his head onto the ground.

Tears threaten to fall from the rushing pain but he holds them in check, instead focusing on breathing and figuring out how to get to his room.

Mary's condescending whisper grates in his ear, _Stupid boy, you've never been safe._

He needs his medical kit, he needs disinfectant, his bag, he has to leave –

The bathroom door opens.

Neil holds his breath. It’s the stranger. He came back to finish what he started. Neil buries himself more firmly between the toilet and the side of the stall and closes his eyes.

Neil can hear some movement, the opening and closing of the adjacent stall. He doesn’t dare look up. Maybe if he did scream, the bartender would hear him. Over the music? Unlikely. He has to try. He refuses to die by the hands of some asshole, not after surviving real monsters, real hardships. Neil gathers as much strength in his lungs as he can and –

“Yes or no?”

The breath knocks out of him like a blow to the stomach. The relief itself almost drags him to unconsciousness. As it is, a thin stripe of blood from his temple drips into his eye, making it burn, and his side thrums in nauseating pain.

Neil realizes he has yet to answer White Sneakers. For the first time since they started this, he gasps out,

“_No.” _

There’s silence. Then the door to his stall whips open and slams onto the adjacent wall. White Sneakers is short and blonde and all sharp angles and calculating eyes. He can’t be any older than Neil himself. He’s also getting increasingly blurrier as time passes.

He kneels down next to Neil and presses a hand over his wound, causing Neil to gasp in pain. When did Neil stop applying pressure? 

“Hey,” White Sneakers snaps his hands in front of Neil’s face. He must have closed his eyes.

“I’m taking you to the hospital,”

Fear wakes him faster than caffeine. Hospital means records, which means questions, which means he has a time stamp. Neil’s father is the top of a tree with several hundred roots. He’ll find him.

“No… hospitals,” he gasps.

White Sneakers narrows his eyes.

"You have a gaping hole in your side and a possible concussion. Now isn’t the time for a moral high ground.”

It’s nice to know the guy is still an asshole, even at times like this. Neil doesn’t have the energy or words so he hopes the panic in his eyes convey everything he can’t say. He reaches a shaky hand to grasp at the man's arm.

“_Please,” _

Neil surrenders off the edge of the sky.

* * *

It’s 10:25pm on a Saturday and Andrew is back at this shithole like he isn’t the most predictable man in North America.

“What can I get ya?” That fucking smirk never fades from this fucker’s face.

Instead of dignifying this shithead with his little code, Andrew ignores him and starts walking back on his own accord. The guy laughs boisterously before hurrying to jump in front and lead the rest of the way.

Andrew gives him forty dollars and a middle finger salute before going inside.

He doesn’t notice anything off at first. Stall-guy is quieter than usual – so quiet, Andrew would think he was standing in the bathroom alone. Still, he settles himself in the open stall, stands across the hole in the wall, and waits a few moments before asking,

“Yes or no?”

There’s silence. The guy usually answers right away. Andrew’s skin starts to crawl. Something isn’t right. This is a trap, no – not a trap, something worse, something –

Andrew’s sneakers squelch into a thick and sticky substance. He looks down.

_Is that fucking – _

“_No.” _

The voice is cracked and raw. It makes his pulse pound in his ears in a frenzied beat. Before he even registers his movements, Andrew whips open the adjacent stall door and steps further into a thin pool of blood.

The guy has luscious brown curls and deep brown eyes and a lanky, short body. Annoyingly enough, he's gorgeous and trouble and fucking unpredictable. He’s also bleeding out from a stab wound and rapidly losing consciousness.

Andrew kneels down, presses his hand to his side where the blood seems to be coming from. Stall-guy hisses in pain but Andrew doesn’t care. Instead, he concentrates on brown eyes fluttering close.

“Hey,” Andrew snaps his fingers by his face and waits until brown eyes focus on his.

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” he tells him.

Something akin to fear washes over his expression and the guy gasps out weakly, 

“No… hospitals,” 

_This absolute fluttering idiot. _

Andrew wants to be annoyed but he’s more focused on the slippery pump of blood between his fingers. 

“You have a gaping hole in your side and a possible concussion. Now isn’t the time for a moral high ground.” He snaps.

The guy opens his eyes to look fully at Andrew. Panic, fear, and something else lingers in his open gaze. He reaches a bloody hand to grip at Andrew’s arm, making the blonde tense. <strike>Unexpected</strike> unwanted contact grates on the roof of his mouth like undissolved sugar.

And then, this piece of dying shit says the worst fucking thing before promptly passing out,

“_Please,”_

Andrew is absolutely fucked. 


	3. The Fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t trust Andrew and it’s clear Andrew doesn’t trust him. They may have had a good relationship inside the stalls but now there are faces to names, debts to be paid. Neil is no longer safe. Neil has never been safe. And Andrew may have saved his life but he isn’t a lifeline to be grabbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my frequent readers - I changed the original summary for this piece because it wasn't getting as many hits as I'd hope but it's still the same story lol 
> 
> Let's get this show on the road...

It’s 10:34pm on a Saturday and Andrew should be at home, smoking a cigarette. He should be listening to his cousin rattling off about his boyfriend and avoiding Aaron and his moods as he studies for grad classes. Andrew should be, for all intents and purposes, any-fucking-where-else besides stunting the blood flow on bacteria-infected bathroom floor of a shady club.

But instead, he’s ripping up an old flannel shirt to wrap around a dying man’s chest.

Blood is soaking into the fabrics of his jeans where he’s kneeling and his white sneakers are officially a slimy pink and Andrew has repeated every curse word he knows 13 times before the leaking blood finally manages to pump to a stop.

Stall-guy is still passed out and pale as he lays motionless in a pile of blood. It looks like a scary movie or a sleep-paralysis nightmare or the end of a bad joke. Everything Andrew touches ends in violence, he should fucking know better by now.

The music from the club pounds in tune with Andrew’s headache and he sits back for exactly three seconds to evaluate his next moves.

Andrew shouldn’t care. This is a random man, an unfinished thought, absolute _fucking_ trouble. He shouldn’t care, he shouldn’t be checking his pulse and adjusting this guy’s limp form onto his back like a goddamn fireman. This isn’t a Disney movie. He’s not the hero. And he doesn’t fucking care. 

Of course that doesn’t stop him from going out the back of the club, laying the guy in the backseat of his car and effectively frisking his pockets for weapons because Andrew is apparently a good person but that doesn’t mean he’s fucking stupid.

Andrew doesn’t find a knife but he does find approximately $1,700 in cash and a smudged ID that says, _Neil Josten_. Only a dead man walking carries this much cash on his person. If Andrew were a betting man, he’d guess the ID was fake too.

Which tells him Neil Josten is worse than an unfinished thought, he’s a fucking runaway. Did whoever he’s running from find him? Was this his death sentence? In Neil’s line of business, the culprit could have been any white reject with a complex. With this much money and a fake, it also could have been the fucking mafia… or something worse. People fear the ocean because of its many unknowns. Are they watching them right now?

Andrew doesn’t trust him. Andrew should call 911 and ding dong ditch this hot mess. Andrew should leave him bleeding out on the bathroom floor. Andrew shouldn’t care whether he lives or dies. He _doesn’t _care whether he lives or dies.

He still drives 10mph over the speed limit to somewhere safe and quiet.

His hands twitch with paranoia but no car follows them from the club to his apartment.

Andrew technically has two living quarters. He shares a three-person apartment with his brother and his cousin but he also owns a shitty studio above his flower shop, _Forget-Me-Nots_.

Nicky came up with the name. It’s both the name of a purple flower and absolutely fucking ironic, but most people don’t know that. Andrew would never admit this to Nicky but it makes his lips twitch every time he reads the sign.

Andrew refuses to place Aaron and Nicky in the line of fire and even though he scanned the empty road 34 times - someone could still find them.

Neil is a red string and Andrew doesn’t know where the other end leads. People fear the ocean because of its many unknowns.

Andrew refuses to take Neil back to his shared apartment but he also only knows one other person, besides actual medical professionals, who can help.

“What.” Aaron’s voice is groggy and scratchy on the other line.

Andrew is 14 minutes away from his studio. He’s balancing the phone between his cheek and shoulder.

“Come to my place and bring your medical supplies.”

There’s a pause on the other line before – “Are you hurt?”

Aaron sounds more awake than before and there’s the sound of someone sitting up, a light switch being turned on.

“Something like that,” Andrew replies, “Be there in 10.”

He hangs up and glances back in the rearview mirror. Neil is pale and bleeding. There’s a thin stripe of blood that had run down his forehead and into his eye. It’s drying.

If it weren’t for the utter desperation in Neil’s face when he whimpered, “Please”, Andrew would be free of this disaster. But he recognized that look. And that fucking word. Neil had the eyes of a man with nothing and everything to lose. It reminded him of another time and another monster.

Andrew doesn’t have empathy but he’s already made up his mind and he doesn’t believe in regrets.

He grits his teeth and presses harder on the gas.

* * *

“’Something like that?!’ Who is this? Where were you?” There’s a slight pause and Aaron breaks for breath, before quietly –

“Did you do this?”

Andrew rests a bored gaze upon his twin's frantic one before Aaron grows uncomfortable enough to look away. He threads his hands through bedhead hair.

“Shit. _Shit. _Fuck, okay. Okay, it’s not important. Lay him on the table and take off his shirt.”

Aaron pulls himself together faster than anyone Andrew knows. Andrew is a livewire over a puddle and Neil is wet. He’s checked the lock on the front door five times since arriving minutes ago.

Aaron was rubbing sleep out of his eyes when Andrew barged in. Like an interrupted movie scene – the part where everything goes to shit.

_Hello, doctor? Yes, this is Patient Zero… well, where else would I bring him? _Andrew doesn’t know.

Aaron clears the kitchen table – a shabby wooden thing Nicky found on the side of the street – as Andrew rests Neil on top. His head lolls to the side like deadweight. Like the dead.

Aaron is already grappling at his medical kit. He’s been at grad school for a year now, studying medicine or biology or something in between. He pulls out some sharp objects, gauze, cleaning serum, rubber gloves, and string.

Andrew unties his ripped flannel shirt from Neil's front, takes the scissors from the bag, and cuts the guy’s bloodstained shirt from the bottom to the collar. That color wasn’t doing him any favors anyway.

But after pushing the ruined fabric to the side, part of it unpleasantly sticking to his bloody chest, Andrew amends the shirt was better than this.

“Okay,” Aaron turns around, “Where is –“

He freezes mid-sentence, wide eyes roaming over Neil's exposed torso. Below the drying blood and faint bruises are deep, healed scars that stretch and move around Neil’s chest like shredded wallpaper.

Burn marks, thin white scars, dark red slashes, and everything in between decorate his front like a bad Van Gogh painting. It’s clear that many marks were intentional, purposeful. Someone had done this with a clear conscious and an unwilling canvas.

He looks like the guy who escaped from a serial killer. He looks like Andrew's mind. He looks like a survivor. 

Andrew feels something deeper than paranoia rise in his lungs. If Nicky were here, he’d chalk it to morbid curiosity. If Bee were here, he’d say it was rage. Since neither are, he quietly admits to both.

Worst of all, he knows he shouldn’t be seeing this – _Aaron _shouldn’t be seeing this. This was private, non-consensual, like peeping on a changing woman or changing her unwillingly yourself.

Andrew feels the urge to cover him, rip off his own vulnerabilities, action, reaction. An eye-for-an-eye, a truth for a truth, the scale is weighted on one side. 

But before he could do anything minor or drastic or both, Aaron had already shaken off his initial shock and begins cleaning around Neil’s chest. Andrew silently refuses to touch him any further. 

The blood flow had stopped and as Aaron mops up his chest in weighted silence, it was becoming clear that all the liquid was originating from a single stab wound underneath Neil’s ribs on the left side.

“It doesn’t seem like there are any internal injuries, we’d be seeing purple bruising around the wound if there were,” Aaron is talking more to himself than Andrew, so the latter doesn’t respond.

“It was likely a small knife, but now he risks infection more than bleeding out. The wound and surrounding area are clean, and I don't think he has a concussion." Aaron washes Neil's face next, the small cut below his hairline.

"I just need to…”

Aaron wipes off two pairs of tweezers and a needle.

“I’m going to stitch him up now,” His hands are shaking, “Andrew, shine your phone over here, I need more light.”

“Can you do this?” They're the first words Andrew has spoken since he got home.

Aaron’s uncertainty ripples like a mask before replacing itself with irritation and hard determination.

“Yes,” he stresses sarcastically, “We practiced on dummies in class. It’s just not every day I get real-life patients bleeding out and unconscious at the ass-crack of night.”

“You’re welcome, then.” Andrew deadpans.

Aaron meets his glare with Andrew’s uncaring gaze before focusing back onto Neil. He takes a steadying breath and goes to work.

* * *

Neil gains consciousness before he opens his eyes. He knows something is off almost immediately. He feigns sleep and remains still until his mind can catch up with his body.

The most notable unfamiliarity is the smell. For the past half-year, Neil has gotten used to the scent of booze, weed, and greasy club food. The only relief from the frat basement vibes is the tiny window in his studio, its scents of pine and crisp leaves filling Neil’s small space with wilderness.

If Neil believed in luxuries, he’d buy a candle that mimicked freedom.

But now, there are no lingering smells of alcohol or drugs. Instead, the scent of fresh herbs and cigarettes drift through the air. It smells like basil, rosemary, oregano, and the faint heady scent of nicotine. It would be calming if Neil weren’t consumed with utter panic of the unknown.

A soft blanket has been thrown over his torso, the shirt clearly not his, too worn and too soft to the touch. He’s also in clean sweatpants, most definitely not his. Neil owns one pair of jeans, two pairs of running shorts, and three pairs of boxers. His pants always have pockets, always have use. Neil doesn’t believe in luxuries.

Where is his money? His identification? Who saw him? Panic builds a nest in his lungs. 

Underneath his clothes is tightly wound gauze. His side aches in a pain both familiar and old. It’s been years since Neil has met the other end of a knife and he could say for certain that he didn’t miss the sensation.

His forehead itches - a bandaid? Neil smells like disinfectant and basil and lemon soap. 

Memories flood his senses like unleashing the bottom log in a clogged riverbed. He remembers his client, the knife, the floor, White Sneakers, blood, and darkness.

This place doesn’t smell like a hospital. It’s too warm, too soft, too similar to a trap – something to lower his defenses, take the bricks off his walls one-by-one. Neil is a coward but he’s not a fool. 

He pries his eyes open.

“Sleeping beauty,” a voice drawls from Neil’s right, and he flinches at the sound. He didn't know someone else was here.

“Or should I say, Neil Josten.”

_Stupid boy, you've been discovered, _his mother's voice hisses in panic, in warning.

Neil whips his head to the side, causing his wound to stretch painfully, his head to pound in sharp throbs, and his face to scrunch in obvious discomfort.

It’s White Sneakers. More specifically, it’s White Sneakers with a knife.

He’s sitting on a wooden chair, leaning forward almost causally, if it weren’t for the long switchblade he’s twirling in his hand. His gaze is calculating and cruel, his lips stretched in an unpleasant smile. He’s a predator. 

This isn’t the same man who asks soft words every Saturday at 10:30pm. This isn’t held back groans and still hips. This is a threat.

But despite Neil’s racing heart and pounding head and throbbing side, he holds onto the image of White Sneakers hovering above him in the bathroom, pressing reassuring hands against his ribs, laying concerning eyes onto Neil’s fading ones. 

This? This… act? This moment right now? It’s… out of character.

Which is why Neil feels safe enough to break away from the man's terrifying gaze to observe his surroundings.

He’s in a small apartment, much nicer and a little bigger than his own above the club. The walls are brick. There’s a few doors - one for the bathroom, one for the front door, a glass door that looks like it leads to a balcony, and one that’s closed, which Neil marks as the bedroom. He takes note of every exit and possible weapon. 

There’s bookshelf across the room, a dresser, and a small kitchen with dried herbs hanging above the windowsill. There is fresh oregano growing off the side.

Mary forced Neil to learn all about plants that can kill you and plants you can eat, especially in a situation where your only source of food is whatever is growing next to the road.

In fact, Neil notices, there are plants everywhere. Vines are hanging in between the ceiling beams, there’s a pot of rosemary on the coffee table, and a series of small succulents resting under the window, across the couch.

Neil is lying on a lumpy, green couch in between the kitchen and the bed. There’s a small table next to him that’s holding a pot of basil and a glass of water.

When Neil looks closer, he can see the words, “Basil-tov!” carved delicately in the ceramic pot.

There’s also a mustard yellow blanket covering Neil’s body. It looks hand-stitched. The sweatpants are a worn grey and his black t-shirt reads, “Plant Lady”. 

He looks back at White Sneakers’ threatening stance and twirling knife and can’t help the tiny twitch in his lips.

White Sneakers narrows his eyes and halts his movements. 

One moment he’s sitting in a chair, analyzing, the next, the knife is at Neil’s throat. 

All amusement in the situation jumps out the window.

“Who are you, rabbit?” His voice is calm and dangerous.

Neil gasps, “Y-you already know.”

The knife presses deeper.

“I saved your life. I listened to your wishes – no hospitals,” he hedges on.

Neil is pressed into the couch, the man’s strong arm digging deeper across his chest. Neil can’t see White Sneaker’s face but he can feel the moment the knife breaks skin, leaves a thin red line in its wake. There are black spots playing hide-and-seek with his vision. Neil lost too much blood.

“No, no, don’t lie to me now, stall-boy. Who do you work for? Who is after you? Who. Are. You.”

Neil lets out a desperate laugh that sounds more like a choking noise. Fear is slithering and alive, but Neil is no fool.

“You – you’re going to kill me right, right after saving my life, White Sneakers? Would have, have been easier to leave me… to the maggots.”

The man pauses. 

He sits back and sheathes his knife, leaving Neil gasping and coughing on the couch. His side twinges in pain and Neil hopes his stitches haven’t ripped open.

“Andrew.” White Sneakers says.

Neil, rubbing his neck, looks back at the uncaring gaze of his savior.

“What?”

“You ruined my white sneakers with your extremities. My name is Andrew.”

He gets up and walks to the kitchen, messing around with something in the fridge, before coming back with a glass of fresh orange juice.

Neil looks suspiciously at his outstretched arm before hesitantly taking the offering. He’s dizzy and thirsty and injured. His heart raps off-beat tunes against his ribs.

He wants to ask about his money, his ID, the club, Hernandez. He sews his mouth shut instead. Another time.

He doesn’t trust Andrew and it’s clear Andrew doesn’t trust him. They may have had a good relationship inside the stalls but now there are faces to names, debts to be paid. Neil is no longer safe. Neil has never been safe. And Andrew may have saved his life but he isn’t a lifeline to be grabbed.

They sit in silence. Neil, drinking the juice, and Andrew, watching Neil drink the juice. This is uncharted territory for both of them. 

“You owe me,”

Andrew says it in a way that is somehow not condescending and simply matter-of-factly. Like this is a regular occurrence for him, an average Saturday night, a repeated conversation.

He’s looking at Neil’s wrapped side and clean clothes and something clicks.

_Ah, _Neil thinks.

This. This right here, is familiar grounds. Andrew is a man, like every man, and they’ve done this before. He’s right, too.

Andrew didn’t take him to a hospital. He sewed up his side and cleaned up his blood and gave him clean clothes and a mustard yellow blanket and a place that smells like herbs and fresh leaves and home. Neil has never had a home. Neil doesn’t belong here. They both know this.

And recognition washes over him, right before resolution. Neil doesn’t belong here and Neil is injured and vulnerable. Just being in the presence of Neil is like being in the same room as a hidden bomb, a ticking threat. He’s got warrants on his body and danger in his past.

Everyone who touches him, who knows him, is in the line of fire. Everyone who touched him is dead now.

And now, he has debts to be owed. 

Neil sits up painfully, a hand pressing to his injured side. He gently places his legs on the floor. Someone had replaced his dirty, grey socks with knitted yellow ones, the kind that matches the blanket on his lap.

Neil meets Andrew’s eyes.

They’re bored, uncaring, unsympathizing. Had he always worn this expression? In the morning when he first wakes up? In the stall when he's pressing his hips closer and biting back groans of pleasure? 

Neil averts his gaze after a few moments of silence. Andrew isn’t moving, which means he wants Neil to do the work. Neil understands. He doesn't meet Andrew's eyes again. There are debts to be owed.

Neil sinks to his knees and reaches for Andrew’s jeans.

Andrew violently grabs both of Neil’s wrists and Neil flinches, not expecting the sudden reaction.

“What the fuck are you doing_._” Andrew hisses. He looks murderous.

Confusion washes over Neil. He looks up from where he’s kneeling, his wrists still being held by Andrew’s strong grip.

“I… owe you?” He questions softly.

Andrew is a man and they’ve done this before. Neil thought they were on the same page but it’s looking like a completely different novel. He’s not sure how this one ends.

“Fucking dumbass,” Andrew’s hands are shaking, “_No_.”

That’s a word Neil does recognize and he physically recoils, confused and uncertain now. Andrew releases his wrists and Neil struggles back onto the couch. Andrew looks like he’s about to help, touch him again, but decides against it last minute.

Instead, he leans back on the chair and rests weary, calculating eyes on Neil’s every movement.

“You owe me,” Andrew reiterates, “You owe me truths,”

This is uncharted territory. Neil would rather sleep with Andrew on this lumpy couch right now than answer his prying questions. Andrew waits until Neil meets his eyes.

“Is whoever stabbed you coming for you now?”

Neil doesn’t break eye contact, “No.”

“Is you real name Neil Josten?”

Neil hesitates, “It… is now.”

“Am I in danger by keeping you here?”

Neil looks around, at the healthy plants and dried herbs and soft blankets and warm lights and small home. He meets Andrew’s eyes. Neil is a coward but he’s not a fool.

“No,” He lies. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not expect this chapter to be as long as it is but here we are! This started out as a completely self-indulgent piece and somehow I'm in love with my characters??? And there's a plot??? I want them to be happy, of course, but they're, uh, gonna have to suffer a bit first lmaoo anyway let me know what you guys think so far! If you have any suggestions or more self-indulgent wishes of your own for future chapters, drop them below! Thanks so far for every kudos and comment and bookmark xx
> 
> [Trying to update every week, so far so good lol]


	4. The Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now here he is. Unable to fall asleep and unable to forget. All he has now are four walls, a runaway, and a thousand questions of self-doubt, evaluation, and memories threatening to swallow him whole.

This was clearly a lapse in judgment. The drugs from Andrew’s past have muddled his already unscrewed head. His trauma had been running laps behind the nape of his neck and it’s finally caught up to his frontal lube. _Tag, you’re it. _

That’s the only explanation. The only goddamn reason why Andrew is watching an injured, former-prostitute sleep on his lumpy couch.

Andrew refuses to face the most probable reason why he invited this threat into his apartment. He doesn’t want to evaluate the inscrutable evidence that Andrew’s heart has likely… _softened. _Ugh.

Nicky would eat this shit up.

But here he is. 5:32am on a Sunday morning, nursing coffee and paranoia – two roommates equally compatible.

Every time he closes his eyes, Neil Josten is killing him. Or being killed. Or laying under him, heady breaths and stretched scars, hands over his head, neck exposed, eyes rolled _up_ –

Andrew replaces his cursed imagination with a double espresso and a stomach full of self-loathing.

He made Aaron leave after he stitched up Neil’s sorry excuse for a body (even though it was stupidly perfect), but he texted him once Neil finally fell asleep.

ANDREW: _guy’s awake._ _no concussion. call u if anything changes. _

EVIL CLONE: _Pls don’t._

ANDREW: _iou_

EVIL CLONE: _Go to bed_

This is just how they work.

And now here he is. Unable to fall asleep and unable to forget. All he has now are four walls, a runaway, and a thousand questions of self-doubt, evaluation, and memories threatening to swallow him whole.

_Tag. Tag. Tag. You’re it. You’re it. You’re it. What will you do now?_

He saved Neil’s life and put a knife to his throat. This makes sense. He’s a neutralized threat. A crooked question mark. Who is after him? How dangerous is he?

But Andrew giving him Bee’s knitted socks? Dressing him in Andrew’s comfiest sweatpants and Nicky’s horrible gifted shirt (the softest one he owns)?

This is just how Andrew works.

And _fuck. _The look on Neil’s face when he sunk to his knees. Like a fucking gun was pressed to his head. Like all emotion on his face was windshield wiped clean off – had he always looked like this in the stalls? Was someone making him sell his body at the club? Did he have a choice? Did he even like it?

…. Was Andrew any better than Drake?

Andrew wondered if he should kill Neil in his sleep. Finish the job, cut his throat, burn the couch, burn the body, face the fireworks.

Andrew wondered if his apartment balcony was high enough to kill him if he jumped. Andrew wondered if Nicky and Aaron would follow him down. Who would water the plants? Take care of the store? Life would keep moving. Andrew knows this better than anyone.

He calls Bee from the bathroom.

* * *

Neil gains consciousness at 8:02am. He’s not sure if he woke up because of the persistent pain in his side, or the throbbing in his head. Or maybe it was the serial killer staring at him like his pupils could shoot bullets.

Neil flinches back. He’s been doing that a lot lately. It was likely because he trained himself to be unseen, like spider webs in the corners of a mansion or secrets squirming under his skin or stains scrubbed clean in bathroom stalls. Neil isn’t used to being noticed.

Or. It was probably conditioned.

Andrew’s smile is wide and toothy and wrong. It stretches along his face like it was cut from a magazine and glued haphazardly between his cheekbones.

But it’s not his father’s smile so it wasn’t that bad.

Neil looks at him warily. If Neil learned anything, it's that Andrew is entirely unpredictable. One moment he’s offering orange juice and warm clothes, and the next he has a sharpened knife under Neil's Adam's Apple.

Neil has never encountered a man like him before. It makes him anticipate fists and bruises and blues and purples. It makes him anticipate soft words and softer hands. He tenses his body unwillingly. Neil tends to jump the gun before it’s shot. It’s how he stays alive.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Andrew says through his teeth.

Neil wants to look away but he holds his ground and maintains eye contact. He vaguely wonders if the roots of his hair are still brown. Are his contacts still intact? He doesn’t respond and Andrew’s smile falls back into its usual state of blankness.

“Are you hungry?” Andrew asks.

“No,” Neil says.

His stomach growls loudly in defiance. They stare stubbornly at each other before Andrew’s smile flashes back in place as if it was lurking behind his head, waiting.

“Well!” he sings, clapping his hands once, “Lucky for you, I made breakfast!”

Andrew goes into the kitchen and takes a bowl off the counter. He sits next to Neil, now uncomfortably close on the couch, but not touching.

Neil’s body is still drawn tight like a stretched rubber band and he doesn’t move as he glances down at the ceramic plate.

It’s oatmeal with assorted fruits. Strawberries, basil, small blueberries, and underlying oats and granola fill the bowl. Neil can physically feel his stomach reaching for the dish.

He doesn’t think he’s ever had a meal this fresh. Or homemade. He thinks the basil is from the plant next to him. Something in his chest aches. He pushes it aside and takes the bowl instead.

There’s another glass of orange juice on the table, next to the potted plant, and Neil knows his body well enough to classify the fuzzy feeling in his head as a side effect of the blood loss. His head hurts but he’s not confused or nauseous enough for a concussion. He’s more worried about the gaping hole in his side.

Neil would be happy to leave Andrew forever, with his plants and soft things and strange smile and contradicting actions. He’d go back to the club, sneak into his studio, take his duffle that he has never unpacked, and hightail it to the next town over. He needs a new name.

He’d avoid Hernandez and the bartender and the clients and everyone. There’s too much violence here. Too many people have seen his face, his scars. He should leave. That’s his mother speaking.

But Neil is injured and dizzy and not a complete idiot. Andrew knows his name and stole his ID and all the money he’s earned and Neil can’t get anywhere without anything. Neil’s not sure if he can even stand, much less run if something went sideways – and something always goes sideways.

He needs to heal and process and move forward, always forward. Neil’s been discovered but not by his father and that’s good enough for now.

So he takes the food and the downs the drink and pretends this isn’t the closest thing he’ll ever have to home.

Andrew watches every swallow Neil takes and says nothing. He’s still sitting on the couch, too close for Neil’s comfort, considering the man had a knife to his throat last time they were sharing breaths.

Neil finishes the last spoonful of food when Andrew asks him to take off his shirt.

And Neil freezes. It’s a reflex. He thought Andrew didn’t want this. Wanted truths in lieu of his services. Neil figured Andrew must have seen his scars when he stitched him up but Neil doesn’t want a repeat of events. He’s fine now. He’ll suck Andrew off with his shirt on. His skin crawls with anxiety.

“Calm down, rabbit.” Andrew doesn’t roll his eyes but it’s close. “I need to clean the wound and make sure it’s not infected.”

The logic doesn’t stop Neil’s heart from skyrocketing. He’s still suspicious but his stomach is full and his side does ache with sharp and dull pains. If Andrew was going to really hurt him, he would have done it when Neil was unconscious. 

That’s the only reason why Neil follows Andrew to the small bathroom and sits on the closed toilet seat. Reason is on his side. Neil is fine.

Andrew retrieves a first aide kit out from under the sink and fusses around with it. There’s gauze and tape and disinfectant inside.

Neil struggles to take off his shirt, barely getting one arm out and wincing the whole time when Andrew asks,

“Yes?”

Neil is reminded of another conversation of another time. _Irony. _

He can’t help the small smile when he says, “Yes.”

Andrew pulls the rest of his shirt off and tosses it to the side, before unwrapping the gauze around his front. Neil can’t see much besides the top of Andrew’s head but he feels Andrew’s hands as they clean the wound and rewrap it. He works in silence and Neil doesn’t bother filling the space with words.

Neil is used to being patched up, but it's been awhile since it was anyone else besides himself. Andrew’s hands are rougher than he originally thought they would be. Neil guesses that’s on brand for a gardener and storeowner. 

Neil leans closer to Andrew’s touch. He feels warm all over, like he just slipped into a hot bath. Neil wants to –

“Feel your hands,” he murmurs.

“What.” Andrew says.

“What?” Neil says.

Andrew is looking at him now, his movements have paused and how did Neil never notice his eyes are so... golden? That’s not the right word. The sun from the small window is hitting his face just right. They’re like –

“Honey.”

Andrew’s eyes widen almost comically and Neil can’t understand why but it lets him see Andrew’s honeydew eyes more clearly. He slouches his body forward, almost touching noses with Andrew before a wave of dizziness threatens to throw him to sea.

He feels himself tilt to the left before Andrew grasps the side of his neck with one hand – the other on his face, forcing Neil to look him in the eyes. One thumb raises his eyelid and Andrew peers closer.

His face is still as blank as ever, which is better than the smile he wore before. Neil feels light and wishy, like his head was placed in a washing machine and set to “spin”. His neck and his body are disagreeing with each other. How did they ever fit before? His body slips down down down down –

Neil’s on the floor now. Andrew is crouching in front of him. They’re at the club, Neil was stabbed. No, that was before. Where are they now? The wallflowers are laughing at him. 

“Josten,” Andrew snaps his fingers in front of Neil’s face like a dog and Neil scrunches his eyes in distaste.

“I’mnot a dog,” he slurs.

“No, you’re a rabbit,” Andrew responds, “Who are you running from?”

Running, running… always running. Neil used to love running in the mornings, before the light peaks behind the trees, before anyone can see his face. He’d watch the sunrise and smile as the sky turns purple, then blue. Neil hasn’t run in months. But Neil is always afraid. He doesn't run anymore but he's always running. He’s running he’s –

“Always running,” his voice comes out as a whisper.

There’s chalk in his mouth. He’s so tired. What’s wrong with him? There are warning bells behind his ears but Neil can’t connect his instincts to a single emotion. Neil slumps his head forward, wants to rest, close his eyes, but Andrew pushes him back with his hand. It’s rougher than Neil thought it would be.

“Who gave you these scars? Are they coming for you now? Who are you running from?” Andrew’s voice is quiet and deadly. His questions go off like a round of bullets. 

There are sharp knives and butcher gloves and dark basements and the stench of fear and rot and metallic zing. The wallflowers are laughing at him - no, that's Lola. They're coming for him. Neil is drowning in memory lane. Where's the fucking map? Where's his mom? 

“M’ Father,” he gasps out.

The sound of his wrecked voice alone shocks him into silence. Brings him back to the present. Burns an ounce of clarity in his chest.

He’s broken a rule. Mary’s rule that he carried over to his own, wrote it down in blood and defiance alone. No one knows this but them. One of them is dead now. But Neil is alive. And Neil can never mention his father. Those are the rules. Never speak of his name. Never speak of his fear. Speak of the devil and he shall come. Nathan shall come. No one can know this.

He meets Andrew’s eyes. Realization is a bitch.

“You drugged me,” he whispers. His eyes are clear and foggy at the same time.

Andrew doesn’t say anything back. His hand is still wrapped in Neil’s curls, thumb below his eye. Truths threaten to overturn his tongue.

Neil is undressed and vulnerable and angry. He hasn’t been angry in a long time. It feels like a glass of cool water. It feels like a sharp pain in his back. He wants to go home. He’s never had a home.

Truths burn the back of his throat.

Andrew doesn’t move but Neil’s skin is screaming. He wants to hit him, scratch out his eyes, kick his face until it’s concaved and bruised like the inside of a rotten peach. But his limbs are jelly, liquefied. He doesn’t want to be seen anymore. He doesn’t want to be touched. He wants, he wants - 

“Don’t touch me,” Neil hisses.

Surprisingly enough, Andrew withdraws his hand almost immediately, moves his body back on the tiles. He’s still watching Neil. Betrayal is freezing. Neil is shaking. He should have expected this.

“Why.” Neil asks.

He wants to sound angry and vengeful but it echos back as broken and wrong in his mouth. Truths scratch the roof of his mouth.

Andrew looks at him like he’s dumb, which, reviewing the past few nights, maybe he is. Maybe he should have listened to the phantom lingering spirit of his mother. Maybe he should have let his father finish him off when he held the gun. Maybe he should have ripped away from Hernandez and ran off the edge of the sky, find something better or nothing at all. Maybe -

“You’re a liar.” Andrew says. It's simple. Matter-of-factly. It matches Andrew's bored expression.

And Neil... Neil feels his chapped lips twitching ever so slightly, into a horrid, crooked smile. The apple doesn’t fall far.

Andrew is right. Neil is a liar. But he’s also a survivor. Andrew never should have forgotten this.

Neil turns ever so slightly and slams his head onto the edge of the tub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back baby


	5. The Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil is shaking but Andrew is steady. His words paint the walls a shade of horrid green. Neil’s heart threatens to take his ribs and stab him twice. Distantly, Mary crawls out of the sea to throttle his head. Her rules are dead.

Oh, this is an absolute riot. The universe had tortured Andrew enough throughout his sad life, put him through the _most _amount of bullshit and now, _now_ had finally given him a break. No more dreading the nights his “brothers” come home. No more switching homes like changing dirty clothes, each outfit more rancid than the last. No more choking weight on the top of his chest, always looking at the highest building. No more fantasizing about the jump (well, most nights).

Instead, here, Andrew, have some emotional trauma to carry on your back like luggage as you travel between the crevices of another’s skin. Here, Andrew, where’s your next trip? Have a flower shop, a brother and a cousin, here are knives to protect the ones closest to you. Oh, you thought this would be the easy part now? Oh honey, this is the next chapter. The book ends when Andrew dies. Andrew refuses to die.

And here he is.

_"You couldn’t have waited for his stitches to be taken out before giving him a concussion?_”

Andrew is standing above an unconscious, injured prostitute. Specifically, Neil Josten. More specifically, Neil Josten passed out on Andrew’s green couch… for the second time in less than 24 hours.

Aaron’s voice is automated and staticky but the judgement comes across crystal clear via FaceTime. His twin is eating lunch at his university and looking more suspiciously curious as time passes.

“I didn’t give him the concussion,” Andrew reiterates for the 10th time since he called.

“_You didn’t help him,”_ Aaron shoots back <strike>truthfully</strike> unhelpfully.

Andrew flips the camera so he can glare at his mirror’s reflection.

“Tell me what I should look out for.”

He’s back to business. Amusement drops off and Aaron rubs his face wearily. He groans in exasperation before speaking,

“_Right, right. So, when he wakes up, check his pupils with a light. if they dilate in the brightness, he likely has a brain injury. If he’s showing any signs of headache – like pain from 1-10, but 10, along with nausea, vomiting, confusion, or dizziness, he definitely has a concussion.”_

Aaron pauses to think for a moment and takes another bite of his sandwich. He speaks with his mouth half-full.

_“Oh, and if these symptoms worsen as time passes, or he doesn’t wake up within the next like hour or so, he needs to go to the hospital. Like you should have done last night, because, you know, I’m not a walking ER and the guy was stabbed.”_

Andrew doesn’t dignify that comment with a response. From the deep circles under Aaron’s eyes, he clearly didn’t sleep last night, which means he’s extra testy and Aaron is dry wood next to a wildfire on a good day. On a bad day? He’s a loaded gun on a suicidal man’s desk.

It’s a Sunday so Aaron is spending several hours at his university’s library doing work for Monday’s classes. Andrew is used to insomnia-styled nights, from the intrusive thoughts throwing rocks against the walls in his brain, to memories drowning him in the sheets, hoping he swallows them whole and sinks.

But Aaron isn’t Andrew, so he’s exhausted.

Andrew doesn’t believe in regrets, which means he doesn’t feel guilt, but debts hang over his head like a dead man on a noose. But Aaron knows this and Andrew knows he knows this. His debts are always repaid, and so Aaron, now unbothered since his outburst is free, continues,

_“For now, no bright lights or loud noises and ice his head. Advil won’t hurt either, but no heavy shit_. _If he is concussed, you’ll basically do the same things. The only thing that heals a concussion is time.”_

Andrew nods and glances back at Neil. He’s been out for two hours now, which isn’t the best sign. He doesn’t want to admit he cares but he did wrap Neil’s head and dress him in a clean shirt before lifting him to the couch. He places Bee’s knitted blanket on his prone body. Like a fucking Grandma Mother hen. Jesus, he needs a cigarette.

“_Andrew?_” Aaron’s voice brings him back to the call.

Andrew grunts to show he’s listening but he’s feeling his pockets for a lighter and maybe some goddamn relief. Aaron looks mildly uncomfortable and glances around, not meeting Andrew’s small image on the screen. His ears are turning a shade of light pink.

_“Andrew… should I, uh - who is this guy? Is he someone close to you, like I don’t know, a boyfri-“_

Andrew ends the call.

He’ll deal with Aaron and Nicky when he’s not dealing with Neil. Aaron doesn’t need to know the specifics of their complicated relationship. He suspects Aaron threatened Nicky with the promise of death because so far, his cousin hasn’t called to question him. They’re both aware of his inclination to leave randomly, come home late, and keep his personal life private. Andrew has never brought anyone home since last night.

Nicky is nosey but terrified of his cousin’s record and tendency for violence, otherwise he would have snooped out Andrew’s specific “company” years ago. They both likely have their suspicions and keep them to themselves… or there’s a running bet. Andrew doesn’t care either way. Neither are here.

There’s just an unconscious man and Andrew’s relentless thoughts… again. _Déjà fucking vu._

Andrew admits it was shitty to drug the guy when he had just been stabbed and barely able to walk. Taking off his shirt during the process and getting caught in the word vomit that erupted from Neil’s mouth afterwards, well, that was circumstantial. And necessary.

If Andrew’s cursed memory replays the scene of Neil’s open expression, nose to his own, whispering, “_Honey_,” on repeat… well, no one needs to know.

That wasn’t the plan but Andrew is anything but careless. Before he dusted pills in Neil’s orange juice, Andrew placed the idea upon a chalkboard in his mind. He’s stronger than Neil but Neil is agile, faster. He’s been surviving on his own all these years, done things Andrew can’t imagine. They know each other and they don’t.

If Drake showed up in the middle of the night, Andrew would stand his ground, smile gruesomely, and cut his throat ear-to-ear. Neil would accept his violent fate, steal Drake’s wallet while he was sleeping, and run before the sun came out.

That is the difference between them.

Neil is vulnerable and hurt, which means he can’t leave and he can’t hurt Andrew… yet. Andrew needed to know if he was a snake in prey’s fur.

It was shitty to drug him, but it was crucial. The threat has been neutralized. Neil is only a scared boy running from his father, likely something worse, that much is clear.

And after he smiled, crooked and repugnant, and after he crashed his head into the tub, faster than Andrew could have ever anticipated, for the first time in a long time, Andrew froze. It was unpredictable. Ridiculous. _Absolutely fucking intriguing._

Neil had slumped unconscious immediately, blood flowing from a slanted cut on his forehead, the edges of his head turning purple and green, painting thick red over the off-white tiles in Andrew’s small bathroom. Andrew caught him before he hit the floor.

Neil is a liar but he’s not a threat. Neil is a survivor but there’s nothing Andrew should worry about. This much is clear.

Andrew could release him back to the shitty club, give him his money and ID. And Neil will likely get shanked again and have to move to another small town. He’d continue running like the fugitive he is, from his father, from himself, from whatever else that makes him fear hospitals more than goddamn brain injuries.

Or he’d die within the next two weeks.

The latter is more likely.

And Neil is interesting, impulsive, and completely _impossibly attractive_. This is what drew Andrew to the bathroom stalls and this is what made him stay.

Andrew can’t resist whatever it is that makes him want to unwrap Josten layer by layer until he’s knee-deep under his skin. He wants secrets to be incised between the bricks of his studio. He wants to hunt down the hunter and free the rabbit. This is a dangerous feeling.

And Andrew… is going to chase it.

* * *

Neil wakes like a car slowly breaking to a stop. He’s in the passenger seat and his mind lurches forward before the vehicle completely halts. It’s that moment where he knows he’s not physically moving, but the connection hasn’t made it to his head yet.

Neil briefly wonders why Mom is stopping the car. She’ll wake him soon, harshly shove his shoulder and he’ll pitch forward, fear leering at him from the dashboard. She’ll shush him and they’ll change seats. He’ll drive and drive and drive. In two hours, he’ll do the same with her.

But Neil must be coming down with something because he feels like the roadkill they pass on the highway. His entire body is aching and stiff. There’s a throbbing pain in his side that feels tight and unnatural. And his head has been dislocated from the rest of him. It’s all sharp pains and dull throbs. The vertigo pushes him over and spits on his cheek. His stomach is doing its best impression of a gymnast in the Olympics. 10/10. She’s winning.

Neil decides to fully wake up and change shifts with Mary anyway, since he’s clearly not getting rest any time soon.

He turns his head to the side, reaches his hand out to show his mom that he’s awake, and opens his eyes.

Neil is laying on a couch and his mom is dead.

He has one moment of clarity before the motion of lifting his eyelids sends a downpour of pain and dizziness throughout his entire form. Neil thinks he lets out a whimper, but his injuries drown out every sound.

A wet cloth is thrown over his eyes and Neil flinches back before relaxing immensely. It’s freezing cold and oddly refreshing, like leaping head first into a lake. It smells like mint.

“Dumbass, don’t do that.”

The voice is rough and familiar. Neil places a name with its sound. He remembers now. His walls rise up, up, up. _Danger, _they whisper.

“Andrew,” his voice is wrecked.

“Honey,” Andrew shoots back.

It sounds like a joke but Neil doesn’t get the punchline.

There’s the sound of feet padding on the floor before a creak of floorboards next to Neil’s head. Andrew must be in front of him.

“Do you remember what happened?”

He does now. His defenses draw themselves up by his ears and he feels his body physically recoil from Andrew. He was drugged. Undressed. Questioned. Neil thinks he answered him, likely with the truth. How much did he reveal? He doesn’t know. Neil can’t trust Andrew. He can’t trust anyone. He needs to leave to the next town, state, zip code, wherever.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Andrew says. He’s sarcastic, a bit of an asshole. That’s nothing new. Neil prefers this version than the smiling one or the drugging one.

“I want to leave,” Neil whispers, “Give me my money and my clothes and I’ll be gone.”

There’s silence. Neil can hear the small breaths Andrew takes which means he hasn’t moved. Despite the roaring in his ears and unbearable pain in his head, Neil lifts the cloth. He doesn’t want to be seen but he can’t let Andrew out of his line of sight.

He’s kneeling close to Neil, close enough to touch if he wanted to, but he doesn’t. Andrew is wearing the same bland expression he always wears, but it’s tinged with something more.

“You’ll die,” Andrew says. Like he’s discussing the local weather. Like it’s a fact.

It takes Neil a moment to realize what he’s talking about before he remembers his self-inflicted brain injury and unhealed stab wound. He wants to say that he’s gone through worse and survived.

He says instead, “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.”

“Then I’ll leave.”

“Let’s make a deal.”

Neil can’t help but snort. The last time he made a deal with a man he was stabbed.

_But you made money. You had running water and food and sanctuary. _Neil kicks the voice of reason to the side. He can’t trust Andrew. He can’t trust anyone. Safety is a construct.

Andrew’s still watching him. He’s waiting for an answer. This is the end of a bad joke.

Neil says, “You can’t be serious.”

When silence meets him, Neil laughs without humor before the pulling of his wound and piercing headache makes him grimace and stop.

“Okay, okay. So, let me get this straight,” His smile looks like a burn victim, “You save my life, hold a knife to my throat, drug my oatmeal, wrap my wounds, and _now_ you want to make a deal?”

“The drugs were in the orange juice.” Andrew says.

They stare at each other.

“That’s… not the point,” Neil says.

“I know.” Andrew says.

“So why?” _Why hurt me, drug me? Why did you give me your nicest clothes and wrap my head and unravel my secrets like string? What are you gaining?_

Neil feels like he’s said this before. A conversation from a past life, another reality, he can’t remember.

“You said you’re running from your father,”

The sentence goes off like a gun and Neil feels sick all over. He doesn’t confirm or deny Andrew’s words. His face likely says it all. Andrew is watching him and he continues.

“If you stay, I'll protect you,”

Neil wants to laugh again but he feels like he’s been hit by a car.

He chokes out instead, “You can’t.”

Andrew doesn’t respond but his face is still and deadly. He’s completely serious and Neil waits for the camera crew, for the curtains to rise, the actors to reveal themselves. This was all a prank gone too far.

But Andrew is serious and lethal. And for a moment, Neil wants to believe him, have him on his side. These are wishes for the well. Andrew has no idea who his father is, what he’s done. Neil doesn’t remember what he told him last night but it clearly wasn’t much, or Andrew would have the sense to feed Neil to the vultures when he had the chance.

Neil knows he’s seen his scars but maybe the entirety of Neil’s situation didn’t register to the blonde in front of him so Neil stares unseeingly at Andrew before he struggles to sit up fully. He blinks black spots out of his eyes and wills the dizziness and pain to fade into the background like the end of a movie.

Their relationship has run its course and Neil knows what to do now. Luckily, he doesn’t have to lie to scare the man off. In thirty minutes, he’ll have his money. In an hour, he’ll be in another town with another name.

Andrew is still looking at him so Neil reaches out his hand to grasp the other’s wrist. He hesitates before he touches Andrew and when the other doesn’t move away, Neil takes his hand completely to press it against his own chest.

He lays Andrew’s hand below his collarbone.

“This was from an iron.” Andrew’s eyes sharpen.

“My father had an important meeting - I was just a kid at the time. I guess I moved around too much or maybe I said something wrong because when it was over, he pressed it against me once. And then again.”

Neil is shaking but Andrew is steady. His words paint the walls a shade of horrid green. Neil’s heart threatens to take his ribs and stab him twice. Distantly, Mary crawls out of the sea to throttle his head. Her rules are dead.

Neil moves his hand a few inches below the burn.

“This was from a kitchen knife and this,” Neil moves him to the left, “Was from a bullet.”

Finally, Neil meets Andrew’s eyes. He uses his free hand to take out his brown contacts. They’re dried up and itchy. Neil is lucky he wasn’t blinded in his sleep. Truths break through his chest and scream in the freedom. It feels like torture. It feels like relief.

“He killed my mom,” Neil says. It’s the final nail in his coffin, his best sales pitch yet. The complete truth, vague and horrible, but true. Neil doesn’t choke up or hold back tears. This is another story from a different chapter. Will he buy it? Of course he will - it’s the truth.

They stare at each other for a few moments while the gravity of Neil’s words weigh in the air. He’s still holding onto Andrew’s hand and when he realizes he can feel the other’s pulse match with his own, he lets go. Neil can’t remember a time he was touched without violence.

He thinks he’ll miss Andrew’s presence when he leaves. The man was one of the few constants in Neil’s life. And now he knows snippets of the truth, which means he’ll leave when Neil leaves. Two lines in opposite directions.

Any moment Andrew will kick him out now. Unpredictable actions aside, he’ll make him pack his non-existent bag and –

“I killed two people.”

Neil’s eyes widen exponentially. Andrew hasn’t moved from where he’s sitting. It’s unnerving and his body is too quiet, too still.

“I grew up in the foster care system. A woman took me home and I met her son a few months later, a Marine on break from service. He used me to warm his bed.”

Neil’s skin is crawling. The way Andrew speaks is distant and removed. That’s how he knows it’s the truth.

“I killed him when he grew tired of me and went after Aaron, the brother I had just found. Strangled him with his own handcuffs and staged a suicide.” Andrew breaks away for a moment to light a cigarette. He takes a deep breath through the filtration and blows it into the air.

“Then I killed my birth mother when I found out she had been abusing my brother. I warned her. She didn’t listen.”

Neil swallows around his dry mouth, “You could have left instead of killing them.”

Andrew looks at him fully, takes a drag of his cigarette.

“I made a deal with Aaron. Said I would protect him. And I did.” Andrew says it so simply, so black-and-white. As if ending the lives of two people were small tasks on an average Tuesday.

“You… killed them for him?”

The idea seems so absurd, warped. Would Neil kill for his mother’s life back? Would she for him? He doesn’t know but the coward inside spits, _no_.

“I protected him,” Andrew corrects. He stubs his cigarette out on the ash tray behind him.

Neil can’t wrap his mind around Andrew. He would risk it all, his family, his studio, his life, to protect Neil? It would be easier for him to turn him into his father, the authorities, anything else.

“But, he’s your brother,” Neil protests weakly. He doesn’t want to believe Andrew – this feels like a test, a manipulation, “I’m nothing.”

“That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t blow you.” Andrew responds.

Silence. Realization warms his chest.

“You like me,” he says dumbly. It’s a revelation, turning on a light switch and seeing what’s inside. Lift the white sheet, the magician’s assistant was here all along.

“I hate you,” Andrew says.

And Neil almost forgot how they met, in between the thrum of music, in between the cracks of stalls. Andrew in his mouth, his white sneakers watching the show. Logically, it makes sense that he likes him. He was likely using Neil as a coping mechanism to deal with his trauma, maybe an aversion to touch, maybe a way to gain consent back into his life. Logically, it makes sense but this? It’s suicide, it’s ridiculous.

Neil can't help but ask, “Aren’t you scared? My father has men everywhere, they’ve been looking for me for years. They could kill you.”

“Four.” Andrew says.

“What?” Neil says.

He’s standing up, like the conversation is over, like they didn’t just slit their hearts and bleed truths into the hard wood floors, like their words wouldn’t sit and replay the exchange at every moment of silence.

“You gave me four truths,” Andrew says, “I gave you four back. Are you hungry?”

He’s in the kitchen now and Neil would follow him if he could move at all.

“Four truths.” he repeats. Andrew is impossible, annoying, unpredictable… but a constant. He thinks he believes him.

Andrew comes back with cold pizza and a glass of water. Neil takes it numbly but doesn’t make any move to eat. The blonde is still watching Neil with bored, calculating eyes.

“Let’s make a deal,” he says again, “Yes or no?”

It’s an inside joke, something that tries to lighten the dismal atmosphere that hangs over his apartment. Neil feels hysteria bubble in his chest and he meets Andrew’s eyes. He’s not laughing. He’s still serious. Neil wants to believe him. He shouldn’t trust Andrew. He shouldn’t trust anyone. This is just a shitty case of short-term Stockholm Syndrome. For once, Mary is silent. And Neil… takes that as a sign.

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for the girls and the gays. My December is going to be absolutely hectic, but I'm not planning on giving up on this story any time soon, don't worry. I like to slow burn my plot and add in a shit ton of introspective bullshit from Neil's and Andrew's head (if you haven't already noticed). Little preview for the next chapter - we're introducing some new characters in Neil's life and Neil heals. As always, thank you for every kudos and comment. This is the first story I've written that's longer than 3 chapters and has an intensive plot so thank you to my OG readers / commenters, you're all amazing and I literally thrive under your support. I'll see you back (hopefully) next week xx


	6. The Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil pauses to think about Andrew. About his strong eyes and stronger will. About his words and deals and glasses that never empty. Neil can't remember a time he was touched without violence. Is his heart still beating? Maybe. Neil doesn’t care.

It’s been four weeks since truths were smeared on Andrew’s walls like the aftermath of a petulant child throwing a fit. It’s been four weeks since their deal was tucked under the soles of their feet, every footstep is a reminder of what was, what is, what will be. The rest is just details.

It’s been four weeks and Neil’s body is still stubbornly healing. While Neil determined he doesn’t have a major concussion (he remembers the signs), Neil is still subjected to an impromptu headache or bought of tiredness every other day. On more than one occasion, Andrew had discovered him slumped over the kitchen table or knocked out on the couch in the middle of the day. He so lovingly throws the customary cushion at Neil’s head before shoving (non-drugged) orange juice down his throat.

As for his other wound, Neil continues to have trouble lifting his arms fully above his head or turning sharply to the side. His stitches are tight and itchy. It’s an anchor in his ribs, a tug back to gravity – he’s never been immortal.

Three weeks ago, Andrew caught Neil sneaking out with sneakers and a deer-in-headlights gaze. He kicked Neil in the shin and hid all the shoes.

[“When you can lift your fist to punch me, you can run.” He had said.

“There’s a park only a mile away from your place.” Neil argued.

“Good for the fucking pigeons. Go lay down.”]

Three days after that, Neil found a pair of Nikes under the kitchen sink. He made it around the corner of the block before Andrew pulled up with an expensive black truck, effectively cutting off Neil’s route.

[“Are you trying to make my job harder?”]

He dragged a sulking Neil back to the apartment. Neil would never admit it, but his side pulsed with a dull ache three days after that. Neil silently begrudgingly admitted that running one week after getting stabbed was not the best next step.

But without fear burning at his ankles or the freeing feeling of running occupying his future, Neil didn’t know how to pass the time. This was a new arena, a different book.

An ant hill had formed under his skin, in between the small scars of his body. Underneath his borrowed clothes, the ants crawled and crawled and crawled.

He tried to explain the feeling to Andrew after his failed running attempt, his words firing arrows at a concrete skyscraper.

And Andrew had looked at him, blank faced, and left the room. He came back with a black and white board and a pouch of marble figurines –

“Do you know the rules?”

So, Andrew taught him how to play chess. Unsurprisingly, Neil was awful.

[“You have to think about your next five moves, and your opponent’s next five moves after that, not just the piece in front of you.”]

[“Stop killing your queen.”

“Is she really that important?”

“Yes.”]

Neil loses every time.

When they weren’t playing chess, were trading truths:

“What’s your favorite color?” (Neil)

“Green.” (Andrew)

“What’s your real name?” (Andrew)

“I’m named after my father.” (Neil)

“And?” (Andrew)

“If you need a name, use Abram” (Neil)

“What are you afraid of?” (Neil)

“Heights.” (Andrew)

“Don’t lie.” (Neil)

It’s how Neil discovered thin lines under Andrew’s armbands and his aversion to certain words and certain touches. It’s how Andrew discovered Neil’s dislike of knives and sharp things and all his beginnings and ends. They unwrapped each other one truth at a time until the ugly and the forsaken remained. Neil was surprised he hadn't scared Andrew off. Andrew was surprised Neil was still here. 

When they weren’t trading truths, Andrew was downstairs working the store and Neil had taken up reading Andrew’s many books. They were mostly about flower maintenance and business strategies and a few finance for beginners novels.

Andrew had never been big on technology but neither had Neil so for the first couple of weeks, he was fine with learning how to properly transplant an outdoor spider plant to the inside through the pages.

There was one book under the foot of Andrew’s bed (something Neil discovered while searching for sneakers) about _How to Live with Yourself After Traumatic Experiences._ It was worn and teared, like something precious or something hated. Neil quietly put it back and didn’t make eye contact with Andrew for the rest of the day.

The breaking point hit during week two.

Neil was reading about the different species of tropical plants on the couch. He skipped every other word and then trailed back to the start of the page when he realized no information was retained. This happened several times before he groaned in frustration and dropped the book to the floor.

Andrew was leaning against the kitchen counter, doing accounting work for the store. He spared a glance at Neil’s dramatics.

The man in question huffed and marched over to Andrew’s work corner before promptly punching him in the arm.

Andrew didn’t budge. Just raised his eyebrow and met Neil’s stare head on.

“I punched you.” Neil said.

“I see that.” Andrew responded.

“So, I can run now?”

Andrew closed his records.

“How much did you learn from those books?”

Two weeks ago, Neil started working at Forget-Me-Nots, the flower shop below Andrew's apartment. There’s a small greenhouse attached to the side of the store. He waters plants, sprays the succulents, treats any rotted roots, cleans the store, and transplants plants, among other things. Andrew is usually silently helping next to him, working the register, or delivering plants. Occasionally they’ll get an order for a floral arrangement and Neil will help Andrew make it.

Because his body continues to betray him, Neil has been on a strict, lift-no-more-than-20-pounds rest, but his new work is better than the sluggish lifestyle he’s been living upstairs.

The store has a completely different routine than Andrew’s apartment. It’s still decorated the same, just with more plants and products but that’s where the similarities end.

Neil found out early on that Andrew feeds the two stray cats in the back of the store. Sometimes they’ll wander in and sunbathe in the window next to the potted herbs.

“What are their names?” he had asked Andrew.

“They don’t have any.” Andrew had replied.

“They should.” Neil said. (If anyone knew the importance of a name, it was him)

Andrew didn't seem to be interested, continuing to unload a new shipment of plants while Neil continued petting the cats, if only to hear them rumble like an old engine.

“King Fluffkins and Sir Fat Cat McCatterson.”

“What?” Neil’s hand stilled (much to the cats’ dismay) and was looking at Andrew now, but the blonde was still lifting boxes. He swore he must have misheard him.

“My cousin named them.”

Neil didn’t mean to, but his laughter filled every empty space in the shop.

Working in the shop means that Neil meets a lot of the regulars. Dan and Matt are Neil’s favorite customers. They come by twice a week to pick up flowers and engage in one-sided conversations with Andrew. They own the bakery across the street and like to fill every table with a small bouquet of florals, leaving the type of flower to the digression of Andrew. They’re never disappointed.

They met Neil while he was cleaning up a pile of dirt by the front. Matt nearly knocked him over with the door, claiming he was “So small, I didn’t see you!”

Neil left with a small bump on his head, next to the already healing cut. Matt left with ten pounds of guilt.

But he brought Neil a glazed donut the following day and a Boston Crème with sprinkles for Andrew as an apology. Neil insisted it wasn’t necessary but Andrew ate his donut in one sitting.

Neil met Renee and Allison while he was watering plants. Allison owns a hair and nail salon down the street and Renee meets up with Allison every other day to walk around town.

Renee owns a boutique thrift store right next to Allison where she repurposes vintage clothing and jewelry. They’re apparently good friends with Matt and Dan and partake in regular outings as fellow business owners of the town.

Matt informed Neil that they tried to get Andrew to come with them on these days but he always turns them down. Apparently, there’s a running bet that he stays inside because he has to tend to a secret cat shelter upstairs.

“Or a series of dead bodies.” Andrew had responded from across the room.

Matt laughed a booming sound but stopped when he saw Andrew’s serious expression. The blonde slowly licked icing off his middle finger and Matt left soon after, saying he heard Dan call him from across the street.

It didn’t take long for the group to get comfortable enough to ask Neil about his living situation. Neil noticed Renee’s sharp eyes when he held back a wince at lifting a particularly heavy plant, and Dan’s concerned glance at his healing forehead, and Allison’s curiously mischievous looks between him and Andrew.

But when Dan finally asked Neil about his family, Neil only shrugged, giving a vague answer about being the only one left. He said that Andrew had been at the right place at the right time and Neil needed new work and new living courters.

“I used to work for a club a couple miles away but I… needed a change.”

“Oh, you were a bartender!” Dan exclaimed, “I always need a good new drink.”

“Um,” Neil glanced away, subconsciously touching his side, “Not exactly.”

When Neil didn’t elaborate, Dan dropped the topic. Neil didn’t think much of the conversation but noted a slight shift in the group after that day.

Forget-Me-Nots suddenly began receiving a box of bakery goods every other day, with a note from Matt claiming, “No one wanted these” and “We were going to throw them out anyway”.

Based on the ever-constant dollop of donuts on the kitchen counter upstairs, or Andrew’s insurmountable sweet tooth, Neil didn’t think his roommate minded.

Then, Renee had dropped off some clothes, waving off Neil’s uncomfortable reluctance, saying “These weren’t selling, I’ve had them for years now” and “You’re doing me a favor.”

She smiled, soft and hard all at once and Neil had taken the clothes with an awkward warmth to his skin.

It was only a matter of time before Allison came by. Neil had been manning the register while Andrew was out on a delivery when Allison had swept in through the front door, with her red heels and razor smile.

By the time Andrew got back an hour later, he found Neil in the middle of the store, uncomfortably straight-backed and shying away from the impromptu hair cut orchestrated by the manicured blonde. She had shaved the sides of his head, leaving the front curly and floppy.

Then she shoved some products in his arms, giving his cheek a red-stained kiss –

“Thanks for letting me practice on you. Toodles!”

Neil’s roots were still brown by the end and he pretended not to notice the longer-than-usual look Andrew threw his way when Allison marched out.

Of course, the only natural next step was finally meeting Andrew’s family.

“Aaron, Nicky – meet the rabbit.”

“Neil Josten.” Neil corrects.

He was closing up the store when Andrew brought them in. Andrew had briefly mentioned in the past that he had a cousin and a brother. Neil wasn’t expecting the exact facial copy of Andrew, or a darker skinned man with bright clothes and a brighter smile. Neil deducted that the grumpy one must be the twin that Andrew had killed for.

“Nice to see you not bleeding out on Andrew’s kitchen counter.” Aaron states. Hid arms are crossed and his eyes are hard. Boundaries mean nothing to Minyards.

“Nice to see you’re more of a dick than your brother.” Neil shoots back.

There was a moment of silence before Nicky chokes, sputtering out a horrendously loud laugh that rivals Matt’s.

“Oh, oh, Andrew,” Nicky wheezes out between breaths, “I like this one.”

“This dick,” Aaron cuts in, “Is the reason you’re still alive, Josten. You think a gardener could stitch you up? Although, I’m sure that was familiar territory, given the fact your chest looks like it was thrown in a meat shredder. Getting stabbed was probably your average Tuesday.”

Neil feels his body heat and cool all at once. He wants to paint his secrets on every strand of hair and cut them off. He wants to follow the cats and hide until moss grows from his limbs and mushrooms from his ears.

“I’m tired.” Andrew stops Aaron’s rant and Neil’s spirally mindset with a disinterested wave of his hand, “You met the rabbit, he’s staying upstairs in a little crate with some carrots and hay. Now run along and rack up more student loans for your dead mom’s insurance to pay off.”

Aarons face flushes a deep red – from anger or embarrassment, Neil doesn’t know. He’s a tea kettle boiling for too long. Aaron storms out of the shop, slamming the door on his way out.

Nicky stands awkwardly to the side for a moment with an uncomfortable grimace, “Um, welcome to the family, Neil!”

Andrew has already lost interest, opting to sit on top of the register’s countertop and light a cigarette.

Nicky leaves soon after, his eyes following Aaron’s stomping figure across the street, and promising Neil a free drink at a club he’d never heard of as an apology for his cousin’s behavior.

Andrew and Neil finish closing the store in silence.

It was three hours later, when Neil is sitting on the couch and Andrew is leaning back in the arms chair across him, reading a book, that the former speaks,

“Who else saw me that night?”

Andrew pauses and looks up, but Neil isn’t looking at him, staring instead at the shadows against the wall from the candle next to him – how they writhe and flinch. They’re in pain.

“Aaron is studying to be a doctor. I called him to come over. It was only us.”

Neil doesn’t say anything else, just wonders if his father dreams about the moment he catches his son. Like a wild animal he’s been hunting for years. Will he skin him alive and mount his head on the fireplace? Will he give Neil to his lackies to soften him up first? Nathan dreams like a songbird screams.

Neil almost doesn’t notice when Andrew sits next to him.

“Have you ever been on the other side of the hole?”

It takes Neil a moment to realize what Andrew is referencing and when he does, he turns quickly to look at the blonde more fully. Something in the air has changed. Electricity pulses between the veins in his wrist. His body has slipped in wax. Is he burnt? 

“No,” he whispers.

“Do you want to be?” Andrew’s voice and expression never changes.

Neil pauses to think about Andrew. About his strong eyes and stronger will. About his words and deals and glasses that never empty. Neil can't remember a time he was touched without violence. Is his heart still beating? Maybe. Neil doesn’t care.

“Yes.”

They meet in the middle. Sharp tugs and pulling lips and Andrew’s hands in his hair, around his neck. Neil is pushed down, down, down. The blonde grabs both wrists in one hand and places them over the other’s head, into the couch.

“Stay,” he whispers in between shared breaths.

Neil could do nothing but nod back and close his eyes and twist his hands under the couch’s cushion and pretend it was Andrew’s hair.

The sound of a zipper broke through the loudness in his head and Andrew grips his hips, tugs his garments down, dips his head. He swallows him whole.

Neil can’t stop the groan that escapes from his mouth so he bites his lip until he tastes metallic and tries not to thrust up into the warmth and pressure and –

“_Fuck_, ah,”

The blonde isn’t sloppy or rushed, and Neil could tell he had done this before, if the swirl of his tongue and sharp suction of his lips, and the way he slopes _down _were anything to go by.

Neil can feel his own breath thinning out, his feet tingling – an ocean’s wave was nearing and he’s buried on the shore.

“An-Andrew, _ah_, I’m – “

In response, Andrew doesn’t pull away, only bares down and up harder and faster, forcing Neil’s hips to twitch unconsciously toward him, for his knuckles to crack where they’re suspended over his head, for his eyes to roll _back_.

Only when Andrew swallows him completely, tongue pressed to his base – sucks once, then twice – did Neil finish with a choked off groan. This time he can’t help but drive into Andrew’s mouth, his back arching against his will. Andrew never wavers.

The blonde pulls away while Neil catches his breath, his head light and eyes blurred. Even from his clouded perspective, Neil can see the tent in Andrew’s pants. He struggles to sit up but Andrew pushes him back down.

But Neil sees the opportunity and captures Andrew’s lips once more. He ignores the tangy taste and focuses instead on how Andrew shivers when he bites the other’s lower lip. Neil knows Andrew must be uncomfortable in his jeans but the man doesn’t make a move towards his pants.

He breaks the kiss instead and stands to head into his bedroom. Neil’s confusion follows him.

“What about –“

“Shut up,” He closes the door behind him.

Neil doesn’t take offense. He thinks of Andrew’s past and his armbands and the worn book that sleeps under his bed.

Neil flops down instead and glances back at the candle. He was wrong before.

The shadows are dancing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LMAOOOOOOrememberwhenIsaidIwouldupdateeveryweekOOOOOO 
> 
> So I'm back lol. There's a lot in this chapter, including all the foxes and a surprised sex scene (you had to be expecting this, Neil was a prostitute in the first two chapters) but I digress. 
> 
> I felt like my story wasn't moving fast enough so this chapter has a lot less poetic rhetoric and a lot more character interaction (and sexy times ofc). Think of this as the healing transition chapter before things go to shit lmao.
> 
> To clear some things up now that I've introduced all the characters: I've decided not to include Kevin in this piece. I didn't want to get into the whole Riko / Exy / Japanese gang bullshit and I didn't know how to integrate Kevin into this universe without all of that. So the Butcher is still the Butcher but without the debt and a main employer. 
> 
> I'll try not to take three more months to update this piece, because I have ~plans~ for her future, but you know, work, life, etc. Thank you for reading and tell me you love my chapter or hate everything about this in the comments xx


	7. The Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So of course, it’s only natural that shit hits the fan right when things are going well.

They have sex a lot more. It primarily includes Neil getting off (quiet gasps, loud moans, pushing hips, eyes rolled back) and Andrew walking away (locked in the bathroom, the bedroom, stifled groans, hard tugs).

Neil finds he quite likes this new development. He feels like he’s in the prelude to a good book.

Sometimes it ends on the last sentence, right before Chapter 1. Sometimes it’ll launch into the final scene, with strong metaphors and riveting plot lines.

[_Neil, grinding his hips back into Andrew’s, hands tucked deep in his pockets, neck stretched back_.]

[_Andrew, sucking on the junction between Neil’s ear and neck, pressing deeper into the space between his legs_.]

Sometimes they’ll stop. Sometimes they won’t.

“Andrew… w-wait.”

Neil is bent over the register’s counter, hands grasping for leverage on the hard wood and coming back empty. His pants have caught around bony knees, his boxers soon to follow. Neil is panting and dizzy and oh-so-fucked.

“What.”

Andrew is behind him, fitting in between the curve of his ass, slowly pumping him through his shorts. Neil can feel Andrew hard on his back and nearly collapses on the spot. The blonde slows at Neil’s hesitation, moves a centimeter back.

“You know what,” Neil huffs, frustrated for several reasons. He waves a shaky hand towards the door, at the sign facing outward that reads, _Open_.

The flower store hadn’t gotten a customer since the storm started two hours ago but the sign still mocks them. The rain pounds on the rooftop. Protesting? Cheering? Who knows.

Andrew hums behind him, dragging a lazy hand down Neil’s length once more, causing the man below to bite his lip, muffle a moan, and pretend he cares if a customer walked in at this very moment.

Andrew steps back abruptly. Neil’s shaking legs threaten to drop him all together. He’s a plank held up by toothpicks.

Neil breathes, calming his heart, counts to ten in three languages, and then whips around in frustration. The words die in his throat.

Andrew is walking up the stairs, “Are you coming?”

Neil turns back to the front door, the sign now reading, _Closed_.

Yeah, he’s fucked.

Neil takes another breath. “Yes.”

Neil finds the other man in Andrew’s bedroom.

There’s a moment of hesitation. They don’t usually fool around in here. It’s always the couch or the kitchen or at quiet moments in the store’s corners. Neil has been in Andrew’s room of course, but it’s never long and there’s always purpose behind it.

He doesn’t come in when Andrew’s sleeping and pretends not to hear the lock he slides in place every night.

But now, Andrew is on the bed and Neil is standing next to the covers, unsure where to put his body. His uncertainty tickles his gums.

“I asked if you were coming,” Andrew states, like it’s that simple, “Did you change your mind?”

“No,” Neil says, because it’s true, “It’s just…” _this feels different_.

“Stop thinking.”

And then Andrew is pulling him down.

The longer he’s in Andrew’s presence, the more Neil understands why his mother forbade him from having relationships. It’s intoxicating, all-consuming. Andrew could chew him up and spit him out and Neil would thank him.

They’re back to making out – swollen lips on swollen lips, wandering fingers. Neil’s shirt is still on but he must have lost his pants along the way. Andrew is still fully dressed and hanging over him, grinding on top of him, eating every moan that spills from Neil’s lips like a hushed prayer or a biting curse. The rain is singing.

Neil’s hands are curled behind him when Andrew tugs them free to place in his blonde hair. Neil freezes.

“Just here.” Andrew says. And then he untucks Neil and swallows him whole.

Neil bites his lip and arches his lean neck back, trying not to tug on Andrew’s hair but feels like he’s failing anyway. He grips the strands and smooths them out before gripping them again. And when Neil brushes against Andrew’s ear, the man stutters in his movements before continuing tenfold. Neil doesn’t last long.

It’s several moments later, when Neil’s mind has cleared and his lungs have calmed, that he realizes Andrew is still in the room, lying next to him.

Neil risks a glance over, can see the obvious bulge in Andrew’s pants, the flushed tone to his skin. Andrew isn’t looking at Neil but he’s still here so Neil takes that as the sign it is.

He turns the bait over in his hands, contemplative, assessing, before biting it clean off.

“Can I blow you?”

Andrew’s jaw hardens.

“You don’t owe me anything.”

Neil doesn’t know how to take that so he responds with the truth, “What if I want to?”

“Owe me or blow me?”

“Both.”

It’s then that Andrew looks over at him.

“It’s not like I haven’t before,” Neil says. As if that wasn’t another Neil from another time. As if their relationship now isn’t something… more.

“That was different.” Andrew counters. They both know this.

“Just…” Neil’s frustration is growing heavy again, “I said I want to, Andrew. So, yes or no?”

They stare at each other for a long time before Andrew gets up. Neil sighs and closes his eyes, thinking the conversation is over and dead, before something soft and thin smacks him in the face.

Neil opens his eyes to a black armband. He lifts it questionably. Andrew is standing at the foot of the bed.

“Put that over your eyes.”

Neil blinks once before scrambling to tie the band over his lashes. He can’t help the small smile that overtakes his features as he inches his way towards the end of the bed where Andrew is standing.

He swings his feet off, nearly catching Andrew in the shin.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Andrew says.

“I can’t look at you at all,” Neil responds smugly.

Still, he smooths his smile, tilts forward, and waits.

Neil hears a zipper unzip and the sound of clothes shuffling before feeling a hand on his chin, prompting Neil to open his mouth wide and lift his chin up.

Neil doesn’t remember feeling like this in the stalls. It’s like leaping headfirst into traffic and landing in the clouds. Like swinging a hammer and breaking a wall. What’s behind it? Andrew. Always Andrew.

A hardness presses against his lips. Neil controls his pounding heart and bobs his head forward, engulfing Andrew with one motion, touching his nose to the other’s skin.

It’s different from before. While he can’t see, he can hear every deep intake of breath, every miniscule motion Andrew takes. Neil can feel Andrew holding back.

Neil doesn’t stop moving. He bobs, he sucks, he licks Andrew from the tip to the base and then back again.

At some point Neil reaches around for Andrew’s hand and finds it curled into a fist by his side. Neil repeats the other’s action from earlier and gently leads him to his hair.

The reaction is almost instantaneous. Andrew grips his fingers in Neil’s curls and groans for the first time since they started. He doesn’t push Neil towards him but Andrew’s hips start moving in small twitches and jerks. Neil gives his own groan as Andrew shutters. It only takes a few more movements before Andrew tightens his grip on Neil’s hair and finishes with a shake.

Neil swallows and leans back, giving Andrew room, and giving himself the chance to catch his breath. It’s like attempting to catch a bluejay lifting off.

They remain in that position for a few moments until Neil can’t help it,

“Was it good?”

They’ve had this conversation before. Andrew doesn’t say anything, just reaches behind Neil’s head and unties the armband. Neil blinks away spots from his eyes just in time for Andrew to capture his mouth in a bruising kiss.

He bites the other’s lip hard, causing Neil to hiss. Andrew pulls back.

“Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”

Neil punches him in the arm but he’s smiling. The rain is singing.

* * *

So of course, it’s only natural that shit hits the fan right when things are going well.

Someone shot a gun and the bullet is buried in Neil’s shoulder. No, that’s not right. Neil is on the floor, he’s bleeding. No, he’s burning. He can’t see, he can’t breathe. Oxygen torments the nape of his neck before slapping his face. Neil is dying.

A hand grips Neil’s arm and he flinches hard, knocking back into something hard. It’s his father – no, his mother. Oxygen laughs from her perch above him.

“Josten.”

Neil’s eyes rip open. He sucks in deep, rattling breaths before taking inventory.

Neil’s on the floor next to the couch, curled on his side. He must have fallen off. There’s no gun. There’s no wound. Andrew is crouched beside him, one hand on his arm. The other gripping a knife.

Neil flinches before he can stop himself. Andrew tucks the knife behind his back.

“What –“

“There was a loud noise downstairs.” Andrew interrupts him.

Neil scrambles into a sitting position, dislodging Andrew’s hand as his panic dies at sea. _They’re safe. They’re safe. They’re safe._

“Stay here.” Andrew says.

“No.” Neil replies.

They stare stubbornly at each other for a moment before Andrew gets up to leave. He’s sure and quiet and deadly. His knife makes a reappearance, along with another. Andrew is an oak tree that’s been here for years.

Neil sucks in a hard breath and throws every natural instinct out the window. He follows a few paces behind Andrew, makes an aborted motion towards the kitchen knives, then decides against it last minute, grabbing a large umbrella by the door instead.

They get downstairs, every inch forward feeling more like a footstep down a plank, until they reach the store.

And everything is… ordinary. Andrew flicks on a light and Neil braces himself for an attack, a robbery, a knife to his throat.

But it looks the same as they left it the night before. Andrew checks the locks on the door and Neil moves to the windows, scanning outside and looking for signs of cracks or breaks. Then they take inventory of the store, checking between dark corners and the back door.

Neil almost chalked the noise up to the still-raging storm, a bought of thunder, until Andrew opens the front door.

Wedged in the center of the door is a bloody axe. The force of which it was slammed had cracked the wood, nearly cutting completely through to the other side. Rain pounds against the store, smearing blood down the front and into the sidewalk.

Andrew doesn’t move and Neil’s heart threatens to dig through his ribcage and die right there. _Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit_ –

“Shit.”

Fear knocks into Neil hard – a linebacker waiting for an opening. She reaches forward and grips his throat – how could he forget?

Neil drops his umbrella and stumbles back. He doesn’t know if Andrew follows him as he rushes back up the stairs.

An axe. Or was it a hatchet? A knife? No, it was an axe. The Butcher’s infamous weapon of choice. His father’s infamous weapon of choice. Neil has been discovered. He’s the X at the end of the map, the final piece to the puzzle, an itch begging to be scratched. Neil has a death mark over his heart. And he stupidly dragged a finger upon the dripping edge to draw the same symbol on Andrew’s chest – calls it safety. Calls it home. Where’s the eraser? Where’s his mother’s voice? Where –

“Neil. Open the door.”

He falls back into his body. He’s breathing too hard. He’s curled on the floor of Andrew’s bathroom, wedged between the tub and the door.

“Neil.”

_It was an axe. An axe. An axe._

The doorknob rattles. Then bangs.

Neil rubs his hands through his hair and presses his face into his drawn-up knees. He needs to run – no, he needs to stay. Protect Andrew, protect this place. Erase the mark and call it a mistake. No one will know but him.

_An axe. An axe. An axe. _

The door swings open and Neil whips his head upright. Andrew is a hurricane. His anger lashes fierce with the storm screaming outside. He’s always belonged here.

“Stop.”

He’s in front of him, yanking his knees down, dragging his body up. He hits Neil’s back once. The force alone restarts his lungs as he coughs hard, chokes on the intake.

And then Andrew pulls him into the living room, shoves him forward onto the couch, sits across from him on the armchair. This is a scene from another time, before the comfort, before the war. He doesn’t wait for Neil to catch his breath.

“What do you know.”

_An axe._

“I – “ Neil breaks off. Swallows. Fear leers behind Andrew, makes a cutting motion on her neck.

He told Andrew about his father, about sharp weapons and scarred skin and women who rise from water to drown again.

But he never uttered the Butcher’s name, his status, his trademark. To Andrew, an axe is an axe. To Neil, it’s a message. The Butcher knows this. Mary knew this. Safety is a construct. Neil has a death mark. His fingers are dripping. The trail leads to Andrew. He knows what he has to do.

Neil braces himself, stares directly into Andrew’s eyes, and speaks the truth.

“I don’t like knives.”

Andrew stares at him. They sit like this for several seconds. The rain cries with Neil’s decaying hope.

The ringing of Andrew’s phone interrupts them all.

“What.” He answers, refusing to look away from the brunette in front of him. 

There’s muffled talk on the other side, frantic voices. Neil can’t make anything out but he leans in further anyway.

“We’re fine. Our front door was damaged.”

The person on the other line speaks for a few more moments before Andrew hangs up without so much as a goodbye. A minuscule amount of tension eases from his shoulders but his eyes remain hard.

“That was Renee. Every business on the street was vandalized. Cops have been called and they think it’s from a gang of kids in the town over.”

“Oh.” Neil breaths out. It’s like releasing a balloon, a small sound, just enough to convince the kids that the party is over.

He pretends that relief blooms like magnolias in his chest. He pretends this isn’t a lie.

Andrew gets up and walks over to small balcony. Neil hears the click of a lighter, smells the filtered scent of tabaco. He lays back down on the <strike>coffin</strike> couch, as Andrew smokes a few paces away.

_An axe. An axe. An axe. _

Neil doesn’t believe in coincidences. His stomach drops off the ledge, bids his body farewell. There’s a tacky hole in his chest. It grows with every moment Neil stays in place. Tar clutches his ankle. A string connects his pinkie to his father and Andrew and back.

_An axe. An axe. An axe. _

By the time Andrew is done smoking, Neil had smoothed out his features and calmed his breathing to mimic a peaceful slumber. Instead of going back into his room, Andrew lingers in the living room and kitchen like stale smoke, unable to find an air vent. He alternates between smoking and sitting.

_An axe. An axe. An axe. _

Neil doesn’t open his eyes again and Andrew doesn’t return to his room.

_An axe. An axe. An axe. _

The rain teases them both. It slips between the panels of the roof, slides down window frame, licks the axe’s face and squeals. It’s laughing. It’s free.

_An axe. An axe. An axe. _

They all follow the rise of the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh baby here we go again~
> 
> If you're quarantined like I am right now, I hope this new chapter is adding a little more excitement in these scary and boring times!
> 
> Um slight mistake on my part for my OG readers - originally I described Andrew’s apartment as a studio with the bed in the same room as the couch. As I continued writing, I realized Andrew would never sleep in the same room as Neil, especially in the beginning when he viewed Neil as an unknowable threat. So I went back and changed that chapter’s setting description a little (chp. 3) and added in a small door that leads to Andrew’s room - it’s more canon. So if you've been with me from the beginning and remembered the setting being a studio apartment and are now a little confused that there’s a bedroom with a door, my bad!
> 
> Hope you're all staying healthy and safe and I'll try to update this story when I can. Let me know if you like the way this is going so far! As always, thank you for reading and giving me feedback - your comments give me life xx


	8. The Target

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil had trailed a trickling finger down the street to paint the town red. Created a map. Created a target.

Neil is a moth trapped in an electrical socket. An axe was plunged into the place he calls home. It should have been his neck.

The Neil a few months ago would be half way across the country, duffle bag pulled tight against his back, a new name slipping easily past his lips like trying on a different shirt.

He’d shave his head into a buzzcut like that one time he had gotten lice. Then he’d die his hair black, straight to the roots. Neil would wear dark contacts over his blue eyes and he’d purchase tanning spray to lather onto his already olive-toned skin. He’d wear fake glasses and oversized clothes – all blacks and greys and blues – nothing too bright, nothing too noticeable. Neil would steal a new pair of sneakers from the town over (because his left shoe right now has a hole on the bottom from wear).

He wouldn’t be Neil but he would be safe.

The Neil a few months ago would leave faster than Andrew could say “Stop.” And he wouldn’t look back.

But the Butcher knows where Andrew lives. Which means he knows how long Neil has been staying here, how many customers enter the store. Which lackey has been watching him? For how long? 

He’d see how Neil sweeps the downstairs every night in front of the large, open windows. He’d see the touches exchanged between Andrew, the soft kisses during slow days, how Neil disappears into the back to climb the stairs, how he doesn’t leave when the sky turns dark and the sign flips to _Close_.

How many times had Matt and Dan dropped off sweets? Stayed for a drink, a late-night talk? How many days had Renee and Allison walked over to eat lunch by the register, bringing Neil a sandwich or a new shirt or a small smile? Neil could count on several hands how many times Aaron had grudgingly done his homework in the window sill while Nicky roped Neil into conversation. Neil remembers how Aaron reluctantly poked at his healing wound two weeks back, asked about his health, examined his stitches and then removed them.

Neil had trailed a trickling finger down the street to paint the town red. Created a map. Created a target.

Had the Butcher been watching? Could he read it on Neil’s face like subtitles in a horror film? That Neil had found something better than kaleidoscope names and pocketed cars and holes in his socks? That the business owners on Foxhole Street had wedged determined fingers between his sternum to settle firmly in his heart? Kept it beating. Kept him alive.

Of course he knows. His father ensured destruction upon every soul who gathered near Neil like the outer ring of a nuclear bomb. The waves of uranium hit every business who dared look at Neil with kindness:

An axe in Andrew’s door. Rocks thrown through Matt and Dan’s windows. Slashes through the wood surrounding Renee’s store. Dents and stains wrecked on the sign above Allison’s business.

Of course he knows. He followed the neon trail. Paid off the cops. Gathered the blame to dump upon the town over. He knows. And he’s here.

“I want out of our deal.”

Neil stares unflinchingly at Andrew behind the register. Neil had finished watering the indoor plants while Andrew sat on the creaky chair behind the wooden counter, sipping hot chocolate. A single blonde eyebrow rises.

“No.”

Neil frowns, “That – this isn’t something you can say no to.”

Andrew sets down his drink, pulls out a cigarette instead. His feet are up and crossed on the table. He’s wearing white sneakers. They look new. A single shoelace is untied.

“Why did the carnivore feast on the fox after promising he wouldn’t?”

Neil blinks. “What?”

Andrew lights his cigarette, takes a toxic breath in, and out, filling the air with cloying poison. He deadpans, “He was lion.”

They stare at each other. Neil belatedly realizes he needs to choose a different route. He’s headed towards a cliff. The brakes are in the backseat.

He forces stoic assurance in his gaze, collects his thoughts like sand dollars. Starts over.

“I can’t be under your protection forever. I’m not who I was before. My side has healed and I can defend myself properly. You can’t – I don’t want you jumping in front of a knife for me.”

Andrew watches him silently. He drops his half-finished cigarette in the open cup of hot chocolate. It goes out with a hiss. He moves out behind the counter.

“You can protect yourself?” He questions. A deadly quiet fills the air.

It feels like a test.

“Yes.”

A slow smile spreads across Andrew’s face like red wine spilled on a white tablecloth. Neil doesn’t flinch.

Exactly three seconds pass before Andrew strikes.

On instinct, Neil dodges back, raises his arm to block the blow. Aiming for his face, but landing on his upraised forearm, Andrew doesn’t stop his momentum, instead twisting his body to swing out a kick in a quick succession. 

Thrown off guard from the sudden assault, Neil feels Andrew’s powerful shin make contact with his ribs. The wind doesn’t knock out of him, but it’s close.

Neil hits the ground with a gasp and rolls over quickly before Andrew’s fist can connect with his eye. Scrambling to the side, Neil grabs Andrew’s ankle by the cuff of his jeans and pulls hard, forcing the other to hit the floor with him. He’s never played fair.

With Andrew unbalanced, Neil swings his left fist in an obvious move to his solar plexus. The blonde catches his wrist easily, twisting it down painfully, but failing to see Neil’s other elbow in a clear arch to his jaw.

Andrew takes the hit but doesn’t slow, instead rapidly paying back with a fist to Neil’s cheek. His wrist is still in a deadlock. Neil takes the blow with a grunt and falls on his back to kick out a leg, feeling a connection with something solid and hard. Andrew’s ribs? There are stars in his eyes. 

But the blonde is on him a moment after, forearm pressing Neil’s left wrist to the floor above his skull, and fingers yanking Neil’s hair so his head falls back, exposing his neck. 

Andrew’s other hand holds something cold and sharp against Neil’s throat. A knife.

They both freeze. Heavy breathing fills the empty store and Neil strains against the tight grip in his hair to meet Andrew’s dangerous gaze. Hovering above him, using powerful legs to straddle Neil’s waist, holding down his legs, Andrew’s not smiling anymore.

That is, until Neil presses the object in his free hand deeper under Andrew’s shirt. Grazing skin.

It’s an identical sharpness, directly below his ribcage. Andrew glances down, sees the glint of a knife threatening to gut him from the soft spot in his stomach. His eyes trail back to meet the man below him.

Neil’s smile looks like the axe in their door.

And Andrew matches his grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive.
> 
> This one is shorter than most of my chapters but equally as important. Ya'll smell that??? It's ~tension~


	9. The Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil always sacrifices his Queen. For fucks sake the Queen better be alive.

“And you’re feeling… settled?”

Bee’s voice is staticky and clear. Andrew takes another breath through his death stick in lieu of answering her. He’s sitting on the small balcony that connects his living room to the outdoors. Bee is somewhere in her kitchen, maybe at the table, or a home office – Andrew doesn’t know. The reception connecting her home to his is less than ideal but Andrew didn’t feel like he warranted for an in-person session. God bless whoever the fuck came up with Zoom.

He can distantly hear voices from downstairs. Laughter. Neil is manning the store.

Before his appointment with Bee, Matt had just come in with a batch of chocolate cupcakes –

_“These aren’t selling as well as Dan thought they would. She said I went overboard with the chocolate chips – want me to set up some samples for your customers?” – _

Then arranging them nicely on the small table by the window sill. He set them up in a circle with one in the middle. Like a target.

Then Matt’s attention pivoted to one of the cats, the fat thing rubbing its head between his ankles, as Andrew snagged three baked goods. Fuck what Dan said, these bitches were delicious.

Aaron and Nicky had waltzed in moments after – Aaron claiming the lighting here was better for studying but the small glint in his eye betrayed an ulterior motive as he slithered over towards Neil at the register.

And Nicky had waved to the brunette, making a beeline to the new candles before noticing Matt.

He visibly lit up at Matt’s large hands attempting to pet the cat like a dog and he quickly showed the other man the _“Proper way to brush a feline”_, complimented with a comb he pulled from god-knows-where that’s _“Perfect for their soft backsides”._

Andrew left right as Aaron feasted on Neil with a series of intrusive questions:

_“What tools did you use to stitch yourself with before?” _

Neil looked pained but answered after a beat, “_I… always carried a sewing traveler’s kit and a bottle of alcohol. Didn’t matter what kind.”_

_“For pain management or cleaning the wounds?”_

_“Uh, both?”_

Andrew didn’t miss how Aaron grappled for his notebook, showing off the various styles of stitching patterns for different types of injures, pointing out one in particular that he noticed right below Neil’s ribs, stating he _“Couldn’t seem to get it right in practice.” _

Fucking vulture.

And to Nicky’s panic, Matt was attempting to pet the cat’s soft stomach as the animal rolled innocently on his back – _“Dude! You never pet a cat’s belly – yes, even if he rolls over, just. Please stop.” _

“I don’t like that word.” He replies. Bee’s sitting patiently on his screen.

Settled. Like he’s an unstable tectonic plate or a fucking colonizer searching for a scope of land to plant a flag on, kill the population, call his own. Like he’s a volcano that’s finally dormant after years of demolition and dread, ash choking the townspeople, heat boiling their organs from the inside out, constantly looking up in trepidation – when’s the next explosion?

“What word would you use then?” Bee asks.

Content. Satisfied. _Happy_. Like he had quit smoking years ago and just delved in to finish a pack. Like right after a good fuck. Shit, like jumping off the side of his balcony and realizing he could fly. It feels like peace. It feels –

“Fine.”

Bee has a small smile on her face.

“Fine, then. So, tell me about this man. Does he make you feel fine?”

Andrew hums. Contemplates.

“Neil is… an idiot. Not like Nicky. More like a fox who convinced the world he was a rabbit. And after living in a mindset you create – “

“You believe it.” Bee finishes.

This was one of the first lessons she taught Andrew. Not just mind over matter, but rather the notion that if you have power over your mind, you have power over outside events. You create your own mindset. This is how you find peace.

“Yes, but sometimes the fox forgets this,” Andrew taps his head, gestures around, “Forgets he has other foxes, fucking wolves, at his disposal. He’s sliding into rabbit skin like pulling on a shitty hoodie – I mean, you should see the shit he wore before this, Bee. Goddamn hole in his sneaker – and he calls himself a runner.”

Bee hums, brings him back on track, “So, if the fox does turn back into the rabbit, what happens to the wolf?”

“Wolves,” Andrew corrects, “And rabbits only know how to run. Flighty little fucks. Stupid, too.”

“And the wolves?”

Andrew sits back, takes one more drag before flicking it off the side, watches it fall. He wonders if it will hit his peace of mind on the way down, set it ablaze. The townspeople are watching.

“They’re trackers.”

* * *

“I’m going for a run,” Neil calls from the door. Andrew is off to the side, setting up a new shipment of candles. Nicky had shoved one in his face yesterday afternoon, claiming Andrew always knows the best candle suppliers. Neil didn’t know what that meant but he had to admit, they smelled like freedom.

“Every day you surprise me,” Andrew deadpans.

Neil crouches to retie his shoelaces tighter, rolling his ankles, and stretching his legs in a lunge.

Yesterday, Andrew had mysteriously disappeared after talking with Bee. He stormed downstairs, dragging Aaron with him (to Aaron’s annoyance and Neil’s relief), then coming back alone when the sign had flipped to _Close_ and the sun had colored the sky a layer of purple.

Andrew found Neil upstairs, attempting to make pasta sauce from the tomatoes growing on the balcony and the herbs sprouting throughout the apartment.

He chucked something rectangular and large at the other, practically taking Neil’s head off with the toss, and turning away before Neil could read his facial expression, claiming,

_“If you twist your ankle with those deathtraps you came with, I’m leaving your ass at the shelter.” _

Confused, Neil opened the impromptu present, finding stylish grey sneakers under the wrappings. The smile that stretched on his face threatened to consume him whole. He tugged them on without preamble, tossing the box.

Neil didn’t know how Andrew knew his measurements but he didn’t ask. They fit perfectly. He should have been surprised. He wasn’t.

Neil bounced a bit on his heels, testing the support, his cheeks hurting from the grin that seemed to be poorly stitched in place by Aaron himself.

Just short of laughing, Neil leaped across the room to wrap around Andrew, twisting the other man with intent to plant a sopping kiss on his lips but landing on his cheek in excitement.

_“You’re amazing,”_ he whispered, arms clasped firmly around Andrew’s neck.

And Andrew turned into him, tugging his hair back, kissing him deeper, biting the other’s bottom lip – before shoving Neil away.

_“Disgusting,”_ he had said, wiping his cheek.

_“I can always go on a run tomorrow,”_ Neil said back.

_“… Take off your shoes.” _

They spent the rest of the evening in Andrew’s room, the door locked shut.

Neil finishes stretching, shaking out his limbs in ill-conceived excitement, calling once more, “Be back in a bit,”

“Don’t get stabbed,” Andrew responds.

“No promises,” Neil replies before opening the door and taking off.

Jesus, it feels like relief. He's a jet on a runway. A skydiver before the big leap. Like lemonade on a street corner after walking for miles. Like chasing a high that never peaks. Like Andrew.

Neil makes it to the park in record time, loops around the trail and takes note of every face he passes:

The old couple on the bench – he’s reading the newspaper, she’s reading a book with a yellow cover. The group of women with colorful mats, practicing odd poses in a synchronized group. The two men walking side-by-side, one’s laughter filling the space between them. Another runner with neon pink shorts and clunky headphones. An older family with a daughter on her phone, trailing behind. A young couple stretched out in the lawn on a plain blanket, holding hands, pointing at the clouds.

Neil makes it back to Forget-Me-Nots an hour later, panting heavily and slowing to a stop a few yards away from the store. Dan waves to him from across the street – she’s writing the café’s specials on the chalkboard in front of her storefront.

Every store on Foxhole Street had managed to patch up the vandalism from three weeks back in record timing, with some help from the local community.

Guilt smells like ozone. Neil swallows it down and waves back, still trying to catch his breath on shaky knees before entering the store, a bell announcing his return.

Andrew is with a customer by the snake plants. Arms crossed and face stubborn, he’s gesturing to the largest plant, kneeling down to feel the soil. It should be moist, Neil watered them before he left.

Neil can’t see the woman’s face from behind but Andrew looks to have the sale covered.

So Neil grabs his water from behind the register and puts on his apron – a brown fabric with a stitched white flower in the middle. It looks a tad odd with his short grey running shorts and cotton black t-shirt but he doesn't care. Andrew has an identical one upstairs that he never wears in the store. Neil isn’t surprised – everyone knows who he is in this town.

Renee enters the store a second after, noting the customer with Andrew and smiling politely to Neil, “Good afternoon, Neil. Do you know where Andrew placed the lilies for me?”

Neil remembered the blonde making a series of arrangements yesterday – white lilies with soft purple catmint, mint, and other assortments of greens. Renee wanted something fresh and beautiful to place around her boutique.

“I’m not sure, I can check in the back for you –“

“Neil?” Andrew interrupts, “Can you help this woman with some indoor plants? I have Renee’s order in the truck.”

He’s annoyed, which isn’t unusual for Andrew and likely has to do with the picky customer, currently tracing a sharp nail across the large snake plant.

“Oh, thank you, Andrew,” Renee smiles, “It’s a bit of a haul, I’ll meet you over to help.”

The door chimes with a final sound and Neil turns to the woman. He tightens his apron and walks over to stand a good distance behind her. She’s contemplating the selection, brushing her fingers over every leaf. Neil frowns.

“Does your place not receive a lot of natural light? Snake plants are great for dim corners and first-time plant owners – they can survive through anything.”

“I can see why you like this plant,” she hums. “You two have a lot in common.”

Neil watches her manicured fingers trail the thick leaves. She snaps one off.

“Like cockroaches. Can never seem to die, you know. Unless of course, you cut off its grimy little head.” She snaps off another leaf.

“Still, I feel like they could live a good while after that. Headless. Scuttling around with the rats. Just waiting for the boot to fall. I mean, what kind of quality of life is that? But Mary must have told you this already. Right, Junior?”

Lola turns to face him. The whites of her eyes are blinding. A soft, sad smile graces her stained lips.

Neil distantly wonders if he’s screaming. He’s on the ceiling, looking at the scene below him like a dead man on a noose. Why isn’t he struggling? He’s in an hourglass and the sand drops down, salt in his eyes, behind his fingernails, he’s choking on it. A hand reaches below to grasp his ankle and pull him deeper. It’s himself from before, no – his mother, no – the Butcher.

The woman before him interrupts them all.

“Where is the other roach, by the way?”

She’s browsing the other plants now, circling, hunting, going for the heart,

“Surely she wouldn’t let you slum it like a whore in a – what? A flower shop in a small town? Really, Nathaniel, even headless you should know better.”

She laughs. It doesn’t reach her eyes. It never does. From the ceiling, Neil wonders if the man below him is dead yet.

“Even after Nathan” Neil flinches “Gave you a such a pretty gift on your boyfriend’s door. And you didn’t even keep it for yourself!"

She's laughing. "Does the family business mean nothing to you? Well, we can talk all about that later.”

Lola looks contemplative at Neil’s still form. Drops the leaves and steps on them.

“This is the part where you come with me, Junior.”

He finds his voice buried under a Toyota. The ocean is roaring in his ears, protesting, shrieking.

“No,” he whispers.

“No?” She laughs, ringing loud in the empty store.

“Nathanial, baby, do me a favor and look across the street. The coffee shop, yes.”

His neck turns against his will, dragging steel blue eyes to Dan and Matt’s store. He doesn’t want to recognize the large figure sitting at their table, closest to the window, pondering the menu, but Neil does. Jackson. One of his father’s men. Neil scans the rest of the store, blearily making out three more men, all wearing black.

“Not enough for you?” Lola is in his ear. He flinches but her hand is on his neck now, pulling him closer to her nauseating perfume and biting words.

“Well, what if I told you that there are four men exactly the same, waiting for the angry blonde and pretty girl with the lilies? And two more behind this very shop? And another two at the cutest little hair salon down the street?”

Her nails dig dipper into his skin.

“Tell me, Junior, how long do you think it would take for me to send a text, telling your father that you – oh, I don’t know _ran_? I mean, geez, all those guns would just… go off. Before you could – what exactly? Fight them? No, that’s not your style. Maybe hitchhike to the next state, country, identity? But then all this blood would be on your hands. God, that'd be awful.”

Neil can’t remember how lungs work. Small grains of salt filter in the air around him. Each breath feels sharp, like the slice of a papercut or a blade or an axe.

Lola lets out another laugh, dislodging her fingers from his neck and stepping back, “Don’t make that face!”

She picks up a medium-sized pot, moves around to grab a candle on the shelf. “You can save them so easily, you know this, honey.”

She’s at the register now, sets them all down. Neil’s toes have been nailed to the floor. Jackson smiles at him from across the street. It looks like a promise.

“You've always been a bit slow, so I'll spell it out; See, I’m going to buy this. You’re going to help me to my car.”

Lola digs inside her purse, “Once we’re inside, I’ll give Daddy dearest a call and tell him what a good boy you’ve been. The dogs will be called off and every miserable rat on this street will be safe, yeah?”

She pulls out a wallet, “You take cash?”

* * *

“By the shoes?”

“No,” Andrew responds, “The register. And a few by the window.”

He’s carrying two vases of lilies, the others parked with his car in front of Renee’s store.

“You’re right,” she replies, as Andrew places them around her boutique.

He sets one down gently on the small ceramic table by a comfortable waiting chair while Renee brings in two more vases.

“How has Neil been adjusting to the store?” She seats a small arrangement in each fitting room.

“He’s an extra set of hands. Fast learner.”

Andrew finishes fluffing up one of the arrangements and trails over to check out the shirts hanging up front. Renee must have gotten a new shipment around the same time Andrew got his candles.

“I bet it’s nice to have company,” she comes up to him, flowers in one hand, and pulls out a shirt from the rack. It’s a black button-down with a colorful pocket by the breast. Andrew checks the size.

“Like Allison for me,” she muses.

Andrew scowls at her. She’s hiding her smile with a handful of flowers, smelling the largest bloom and fiddling with the placement.

Andrew stalks over to the back, shuts the fitting room door behind him, and tugs his shirt over his head.

“Yeah,” he amends loud enough for Renee to hear, “Like Allison.”

To Renee’s credit, she doesn’t say anything else. The bell chimes a new customer’s arrival.

“Hello, how are you?” Renee says cheerily.

Andrew tones out the rest of their conversation. The button-down hugs all the right places and Andrew likes the burst of color at his collar, like a splash of paint to offset the black. A burst of light amongst a series of clouds.

He changes back and leaves the fitting room. Two men, burly, dressed all in black, are browsing the ties. Andrew raises a single eyebrow and looks to Renee. She’s smiling but a shade in her expression betrays her confusion. Renee’s boutique doesn’t attract company like this. Something nags at the back of his mind. Like if the store’s classical music scratched off to showcase heavy metal rock.

“Do you gentlemen need help with anything?” Renee picked up on the feeling, if her too-still figure was anything to go by.

“Just looking,” one grunts.

He’s eyeing the same shirt rack Andrew was at earlier, but doesn’t touch any fabric. In fact, he barely seems to see the shirts at all. Lights on, no one’s home. Faking interest? Why?

A light touch to the back of Andrew’s arm alerts him to Renee’s ever-present smile. Her eyes are sharp. She's gazing at a spot outside. Andrew fakes interest in his own shirt before following her stare.

There are two men, of the same build and style, smoking outside Renee’s shop. Electricity tingles through the air. Anticipation? Tension? A series of rubber bands pulled so tight, they could snap at any moment – who’s on the other end?

Andrew counts his knives with a free thought, feels the indent against his arms, before putting his shirt back on the rack. He makes eye contact with Renee. She understands, steps closer to him and turns so she stands between Andrew and one of the men.

It’s the perfect position for Andrew to body slam her.

He fake trips on the carpet, pushing Renee towards the other and she clashes with him, her delicate hands and flowing skirt scrambling for purchase. The man’s eyes widen but he catches her easily before promptly stepping away from her flailing limbs.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir!” Renee is all wide eyes and smooth innocence. A blush of embarrassment coats her cheeks.

She turns to the man on the floor, “Andrew, are you alright? I need to replace the two-sided tape on that carpet, it’s an absolute hazard.”

“I’m fine,” he replies as he rises, “In the back, right?”

She’s smiling, passing for flushed awkwardness, “Yes, do you mind?”

Renee turns back to the men, “Give me a shout if you need any help, I’ll be right back.”

She leads Andrew to the closed door behind the shop, slipping inside easily and locking the door behind them. It’s a storage closet with a small desk and some files scattered about. Renee’s smile drops off the ledge.

“A handgun, two knives, maybe more.” She reports. She got a good feel during her fall.

“Your men?” Andrew questions.

Everyone knows Renee’s background. She's not one for secrets or regrets. But the gang Renee was affiliated with had never attempted assault once she left. They know who she is, where she's located. Renee doesn't hide. 

She shakes her head.

“No visible tattoos, no significant features. They won’t even look my way. Not here for me.”

Cold dread fills the room. It tastes like gasoline.

“Did anything strike you as odd about the woman in my store?”

“I didn’t get a good look at her,” Renee admits, “You don’t think…” She comes to the same conclusion as Andrew.

“Neil.” Andrew snarls, like speaking his name into existence would smother the horrid thought with a couch cushion. “Fuck. _Fuck._”

He counts his knives with a free thought.

“If they’re here, they’re everywhere. We can’t raise suspicion, Andrew. This is just a theory. Head back to your store, I’ll contact the others.”

Andrew collects his mind, pieces it back together, nods. They breathe as one.

The hardness that lurks beneath Renee’s gaze is terrifying and familiar. Andrew latches onto it like an alcoholic allowed one last shot, uses it to fuel his next steps and the ones after that. Neil always sacrifices his Queen. For fucks sake the Queen better be alive.

Renee plasters on a smile carved from concrete. Andrew counts his knives with a free thought.

They exit to an empty store.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it fucks sake, fuck's sake, or fuck sake? Does the fuck own the sake? Is there a singular fuck? (very important questions lmk lmk)
> 
> I'm going to apologize now for leaving you guys on this anticipating note lmao but I'll be back soon to get to the good stuff soon enough


	10. The Tourist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He thinks if Neil dies, he’ll tie himself to the radiator and set fire to everything he touched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recap of the last chapter: Lola visits Foxhole Street. Neil is taken. Andrew enters to an empty store.
> 
> This chapter is especially graphic (check tags) so you've been warned.

_“…Laughing at the cities made of glass. And you down the stream with your million-dollar dream, only two bucks left for gas~...”_

She’s singing softly, barely moving her lips but filling each still breath with a gentle incline of words, the noise vibrating down to her chest as it presses against his.

She titters off into a hum, barely a sound in the back of her throat like it wasn’t meant to be, like a secret whispered behind the spines of books, confessions to the Priest, like if you opened her larynx you’d encounter Pandora herself chained to the record player begging you to close the fucking door, barricade the windows – _did you learn nothing?_ – and she looks like his mother, seaweed in her hair and water leaking from her ears, she takes a breath and screams.

Neil is burning alive.

There’s a gag in his mouth that tastes like old pennies and mildewed jailcells. He’s not sure when it was wrapped around him but now all he can think of is loose change on the floor of Forget-Me-Nots and he hopes Andrew forgets him not as he breaks one of seven rules –

“Please,” He whispers to the gag.

_“Down in the sand where we planned and we planned, to give the great unwashed a bath. All those years ago before we come to know that we’d only smell like shit ourselves~…”_

He screams.

The smell of boiling meat filters past the pennies and it’s his hands – no, his face – no, her voice – he’s a witch in Salem and his arms are stressed stressed _stressed_ above his head, held back by fingernails and metal, and he’s dying on a leather seat just like Mary. Irony sits cross-legged on the steering wheel and laughs.

Lola is straddling him, pinning down his legs with hers, and she has a knife – no, a dashboard lighter – no, her nails – nothing but shrill pain and soft words and sore throats and saltwater and burning and burning and –

“Where is your mother?”

The gag bids farewell but scrapes his searing cheek in its path. He’s sobbing.

“She’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s–“

There’s a knife kissing Neil’s blistering face and an ocean in his ears. Lola is a prison sentence pretending to be salvation.

_“Oh, somewhere there’s a town where all the mice behave like men. But they, they would never let us near it~…”_

They want responsibility, repercussions, a trail that leads to prey that leads to dinner. They’re starving. And where’s the body? Do the tracks add up? Yes. God, yes.

“It’s time.” A voice from his left, deeper, richer. The humming stops, leaving gasping breaths and choking sounds and clinking pennies and roasting flesh and swarms of bees.

“Either the bitch trained him well or she’s really six feet under.” Lola sits back, wipes her knife on Neil’s shorts, black flesh gooping off the blade onto cotton fabric.

Neil feels nausea rise and fall and rise again and he’s on a boat with one destination, no stops between. This is the final chapter.

She’s dead. She’s dead. She’s dead. This he knows.

Lola filters back in his line of sight. She has red nails and red lipstick. And Neil is sprawled underneath her with red wrists and red arms and red cheeks.

The gag is replaced with white cloth and chemicals and shadows that stretch farther than the sun touches the earth.

She’s dead. She’s dead. She’s dead. He’ll see her soon.

* * *

“They couldn’t have gotten far.” Renee is unyielding knowledge and logic.

“A 45-minute head start can get them to a few towns over and we’re not even sure which direction they went.” Matt, ever the pessimist.

“So, we split up. You and I take the North, Aaron and Andrew the South, Nicky the West, Allison and Renee East. We know what type of car they took so we find the car, call the police, and report a kidnapping. Or, better yet, call the cops right now.” Dan. Organized. Purposeful.

“It looks like they have ties to the mafia, maybe a different gang. If Andrew is right and they paid off the cops back when our town was trashed, they’re no help to us or Neil.” Allison. Keen. Analytical. She remembers what Renee taught her.

Renee turns to him. Searching. Worried. She’ll follow his lead.

“Andrew? What are you thinking?”

He thinks if Neil dies, he’ll tie himself to the radiator and set fire to everything he touched. He thinks he should have cut off the rabbit’s foot and kept it as a reminder of everything he’s lost, everything he will lose. He thinks he is nothing but cracked gravestones and boys who never cry wolf. He thinks –

“We’re waiting for Aaron and Nicky,” Andrew says. Obstinate. Apathetic. He never moves.

“So, they can take Neil farther away? We’ll update them on the road.” Matt says. Concerned. Skeptical.

“And what do you plan to do if you find Neil?” Allison scowls, “Throw a cookie at the mafia and hope they’re allergic to gluten?”

“It’s better than waiting around – “

“They’re here.” Renee interrupts them.

Andrew is out the door just as Nicky parks in front of his store.

The side window rolls down at Andrew’s approach but the pair barely spare him a glance. Aaron is on his laptop in the passenger seat and Nicky is fiddling with a radio that’s spewing codes and static.

“30 Elm West Street and on the move. South,” Aaron says in lieu of a greeting. His glasses reflect green numbers on a black screen, a map with a moving target.

“Any stops?”

“One for 32 minutes – an abandoned rest stop off Route 8.” Aaron chews at the inside of his cheek, types something out and frowns.

“No police reports yet,” Nicky says. The radio filters through the static. He turns to Andrew then, his thumb tapping on the wheel in turn with a shaking leg. Nervous. Anticipatory.

Renee pulls up next to Andrew and peers through the window.

“Did you find everything okay?”

Nicky flashes her a grin now, “All in the back, beautiful.”

Renee returns the smiles briefly before moving to unload a series of boxes from his car. She brings them into Forget-Me-Nots where the rest are waiting and Nicky follows soon after.

Pieces are moving on the board and Andrew can taste pressure in the air. He scratches his wrist.

Aaron sighs loudly through his nose – “I need a better connection to your network” – before snapping the laptop shut and following Nicky’s lead.

They’re all in his store. Waiting for him. Searching for the map, the plan, the fucking “X” at the end of a treasure hunt. _Start. Start. Start._ Andrew can do this without them but he won’t. He scratches his wrist and thinks of skyscrapers and cliffs and planes hanging from strings. Nothing is scarier than this.

Andrew opens the door to uproar.

“You did _what_?” Dan looks positively affronted and Aaron isn’t meeting her gaze.

“It’s not that uncommon.” He mumbles, “Parents put GPS devices on kids’ phones all the time –“

“Their phones, not in their shoes! And you’re not even his family. Does he know –“

“Andrew said –“

“Oh, and you have to do what Andrew says, right? Can’t form your own morals?”

“Um, what are in these boxes?” Matt interrupts.

He’s crouched by the largest one, a hand tentatively pulling back the top, his face turning white.

Allison smiles like razor blades, “That’s Renee’s.”

“Andrew?” Renee is waiting patiently by the snake plants, nearly in the same spot Neil was the last time Andrew saw him. Left him with a murderer.

Andrew tenses his jaw and scratches his wrist. The pieces are moving. He’s in the game now. Who are his teammates? _Start. Start. Start. _

Aaron manages to sneak away from Dan’s judgmental gaze to set his laptop up by the register, right by the router, and Nicky subtly tugs Matt away from the box and shakes his head.

“Andrew?” Renee repeats.

Andrew isn’t known to sweeten words so others could swallow them better.

“Neil’s been taken by his father and his father’s connections. They’ll likely kill him in the next 24 hours. We have his location, so long as he keeps his shoes on. We’re going to find him and get him out.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“So, no cops?” It almost sounds like a plea. Matt refuses to look at the boxes.

“We have to assume the police are dirty. If we alert them that we have Neil’s location and know more than his kidnappers want us to know, it could escalate his situation, as well as put us in unprecedented danger. It’s just us.” Renee has done this before.

“Okay, okay,” Dan is rubbing a hand through her chopped hair. She kicks at the ground, nearly stubs her toe, “_Fuck_, okay. But what happens when we get him out? Assuming we don’t die in the process.”

She says _we_ and _when_. Dan is in. She takes the frontline, waits for the ball. Which means Matt is soon to follow.

“Well,” Nicky says, “Not all cops are dirty… at least not in that way.”

“Erik?” Aaron.

“Erik.” Nicky’s grin is shit-eating.

“Who the fuck is Erik?” Allison.

“Well,_ Erik_ just so happens to be my super hot boyfriend. And a top-secret member of the FBI. So, we swoop in, right? Save Neil, save the day. Avoid the dirty cops, avoid the gang or hitmen or whatever. We call up Erik just as it’s getting spicy. Neil tells him everything, he gets immunity and witness protection, and everyone goes home happy. Bada-bing bada-boom.”

Renee looks thoughtful, “That’s… not a bad plan.”

“Yeah, assuming his dad won’t up and run the second Neil is gone. I mean, if Neil could just throw him in jail, wouldn’t he have done that years ago?” Matt inquires.

“Neil’s dad isn’t making it out.” A promise. A deal. Andrew’s words are made of granite.

“For legal reasons, I didn’t hear that.” Aaron says from somewhere behind him.

“Fuck.” Matt says and it sounds like resignation.

“Fuck.” And Dan agrees.

Nicky and Aaron have been here from the beginning and before that, Renee. Allison grins like knives.

The pieces are moving. The game is starting.

“Alright,” Nicky says, “Let’s get this show on the road.”

* * *

Awareness filters in like light cracking through the panes of his storefront. He has a brief moment of confusion and quiet before his body catches up.

A wave of nausea and head-splitting pain washes over him. Neil can’t stop the clogging noise that splits out of him as he shifts against the ground and feels his drying skin _rip_ from the floor.

He briefly wonders if he’s still ablaze as he rolls to his back, takes sharp short breaths and fights the faintness warring across his eyelids. Neil doesn’t look down but he can feel the way his skin crackles and oozes on his arms, the implausible pain throbbing from his elbows to his fingertips. They’re ruined.

At every grimace and wince, his face twinges back as a reminder. _Tick tick tick. Your time is up._

Concrete has replaced leather and Neil spares glances at his surroundings through the throbs of steadfast agony.

There’s cold stone below him, pipes and an unfinished ceiling above. An exposed sink in the corner and a series of warped wooden stairs that lead up. It reeks of rainwater and mold and pennies. He’s underground. A basement. A cellar.

No weapons. No windows. No escape.

Neil is still in his running clothes with the addition of handcuffs that had sliced deep rivets into his wrists. He can’t feel his hands but his arms are shrieking. Neil twitches his feet to make sure they’re still there. No constriction, no metal. His legs are freer than he. They never expected him to run.

Clarity forces itself forward and it almost sounds like Andrew, crouching next to him, looking Neil over with stark indifference - 

_If you have use of your hands or freedom of your wrists, you should yank the exposed sink off the wall, hide behind the door, and kill whoever walks in next. Run in the commotion._

He can’t, Andrew. They’re ruined. He’s ruined.

_Then stand up. _Andrew’s snarling now. He’s a dog – no, a wolf. He’s right.

If Neil can get out the door, just get out the door, he may be able to make a run for it before Lola and Jackson come back.

Neil hears the faint sound of clicking and it registers dimly that he’s freezing, his teeth clattering with every panicked, pained breath he takes. He tries to get his stiff legs under him, a half-formed plan battling in his brain, Andrew’s reason on his side.

Neil manages to his knees when the Butcher walks in.

His body reacts on instinct, dropping him to the floor and skidding back back back until his spine hits the wall and his lungs restart on command.

Nathanial is 6 and he watches in horror as his father rips 3 fingernails off a hooded man. Lola shoves him up the stairs and closes the door before the axe comes down. Nathanial is 8 and he sees how a kneecap shatters under a baseball bat, Jackson is laughing but his mother never does. Nathanial is 9 and he’s under the baseball bat. Nathanial is 12 and he learns of men for hire, men who kill other men, men who are told to _make it hurt, make it last, _men who play God and wear eyes made of ice. Nathanial is 13 and he tries to save the girl. Nathanial is 13 and the girl dies. Nathanial is 13 and he’s held to the table by strong hands as a knife is pressed pressed pressed from his sternum to his hip and he’s taught to let the girl die. Nathanial is 16 and his father calls him a man, a prodigy, his successor, the Butcher, Junior. Junior is 16 and he’s given the bat. Junior is 16 and his mother presses shaking hands to his mouth and they run. Chris is 18 and he etches rules between sentences, between breaths, between every strayed thought, and he thinks his mother is proud but probably not. Neil is 19 and he’s alone. Neil is 22 and –

“Oh, come on.” The Butcher takes a step forward, the axe in his hand resting harmlessly in his lax fingers, “That’s no way to greet your father after all these years. Look at you! Look just like your old man. Got the brain of your mother, I’ll tell you that. Dumb cunt, she is. Or was. Shame I wasn’t there to send her off.”

His father’s in front of him now and Neil’s breathing on command, can’t lift his head, focuses instead on the man’s left shoe and how there’s a dot of red staining the lace, making the dark seem darker. He’s thinking of peroxide now.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, boy.”

Neil’s head snaps up before he registers he moved. The Butcher looks the same as when Neil last saw him. He’s the same he’s the same he’s the same. This thought is the most horrifying.

“The tourist returns,” Nathan exclaims, pats the other’s head, and if it weren’t for the tightness around his eyes and tension in his jaw, a fool would have mistaken him for happy.

The Butcher crouches in front of Neil in a sudden movement and Neil can’t stop the full body flinch that rolls through him, the black spots that pop pop pop over his vision like pinwheels. His father catches Neil’s gaze and strangles it.

“We had plans, Junior. I had clients lined up asking about the younger, brutal butcher. You cost me a lot of money when you left. And what was I supposed to tell them? That you were playing tourist with your mother?” His voice is nearly a whisper now, teeth showing like a threat, aiming for the throat.

“Pathetic. My son, living with _my blood_ in his veins, running away, when he’s got responsibilities, _deals_ at home. Embarrassing. You stained my good name for years. I settle debts, Junior. And right now, well, you’re the biggest debt I’ve got.”

A sharp intake. A plea dying on his lips, reaching for mercy, falling short –

“_Please_,“

A force knocks into Neil’s burning cheek and he buckles from the blow, collapsing on the floor. Bees swarm in his ears - no, wasps - nearly blocking out his father’s next words.

“Don’t address me.”

The Butcher grabs his neck with one hand and stands, taking Neil with him and he can’t even scramble for purchase, can’t do anything but hang like a man on death row, like a buck finally caught, like a trophy, look at the trout, look how meaty - is it dinnertime yet?

“I’m not going to kill you, Junior.” His father’s voice in his ears, his face too close too close _too close_.

“Rumors spread when my son and wife aren’t at the family dinners anymore. And I can’t let them know the old man is getting soft. _I settle debts_. I don’t lose to them.”

He throws Neil on the floor just to step on his chest. Neil barely twitches but his eyes follow the Butcher’s every move. The fish is caught. He doesn’t dare speak.

“I’m gonna cut off your legs. They’ve got to be worth the millions you’ve cost me from running, right?” He presses harder, “And then Lola’s gonna wheel you to every meeting I got, every sucker you fucked over, and she’s gonna leave you there. Just for a little bit. They can do whatever they want to you – whatever they feel is _right_. Everyone gets justice with the Butcher. Then we take you back, fix you up, and do it all again the next day.”

The shoe is on his neck now. The fish is caught.

“No more running, no more Mary. And if you talk back to me again, I’ll cut off your tongue.”

The Butcher steps back, turns towards the stairs. At some point Lola and Jackson had came down. They're perched by the wall. Vultures waiting for the heart to stop, the dead to die.

“Hold him down.” He says.

And Neil runs.

He kicks his leg just as Lola approaches, catching her in the stomach. She’s sneering but Neil is already up as he snaps his foot out, feeling the blow of her throat under his heel. She’s winded and down.

Arms wrap around him from behind and swing him to the floor, his head hitting concrete, and he’s flipped to his back. Jackson. The man straddles his hips, presses his forearm to Neil’s throat as his weight and frame easily overpower the other. Neil’s adrenaline and fear can only get him so far.

The Butcher is laughing somewhere out of his sight as Lola spits and curses and coughs.

“So, he’s still got a little fire left in him!” The man booms. There’s a screeching sound, like metal on concrete or morals gone sour or angels pleading. And all Neil sees is Jackson’s mocking face and exposed pipes and –

“We’ll cut that out of him soon enough.”

There’s a sharpness on Neil’s left leg, right above the knee. He thinks he’s begging because Jackson’s meaty hand smothers his mouth, forcing his head _back_, his cheek screeching.

And he thinks sees the glint of axe, the shadow of his father’s tensioned frame, when a _bang_ interrupts them all.

There’s a second of stillness, Neil’s harsh breaths between Jackson’s fingers, his toes curling and curling to make sure they’re still there, Lola rising from his right with a broken voice saying, “What –“

The door bursts open with a series of _crack crack cracks_.

Neil sees Lola go down, an unknown force hitting her hard in the chest and the shoulder and the leg and Jackson rolls off him to reach for his side before his head throws back and he hits the floor next to Neil and doesn’t move.

And then it’s just the shadow of his father looming by his feet, axe in hand, and a figure standing parallel, light from the broken door illuminating them all. Neil thinks he hears bombs but maybe it’s fireworks.

“Now, now –“ his father starts, one hand raised in a palliative gesture, just as a bullet rips through his head.

Neil breaths out. Then in. Then out. He twitches his feet to make sure they’re still there.

“Neil.”

And Neil must be hallucinating now because Andrew is next to him, pushing back curls, peering in his eyes. There’s a splatter of blood on the other’s cheek and a gun in his hands and - 

“You found him?”

A voice by the door – Familiar. Nicky?

“Yeah. Good over there?”

“All clear.” Feminine.

Static and pain throw him to the sharks and Neil lets his head fall back back back, eyes slips closed, thinks of relief, thinks of death, what's the difference?

“Hey, dumbass, we’re getting out of here.” And yeah, that’s Andrew or maybe he’s really lost it but it doesn’t matter because he’s being lifted soon enough, feels his arm rub against cotton and can’t help but scream as pain body slams him to the ground.

Arms tighten around him and Neil’s losing track of time now because he thinks he’s on the grass, body half pulled on another’s lap, head limp on their chest.

“Fuck. _Fuck_, Neil, buddy?”

“Don’t touch him.”

“Erik?”

“He’ll be here soon. He’s got us covered.”

Footsteps fading. Whispered conversation. A breeze tickles his hair and smiles.

“Andrew, Andrew we need to leave. We can’t –“

“No.” The hand tenses around his side. Neil can hear the other’s heartbeat, a steady bass, a calming drum. He’s sure if the other let him go, he’d float right to the sky and never come down. There’s nothing left but colors and noises. Grey on grey on grey.

Then muffled voices, his head on prickling grass. He thinks he sees blue and red and blue.

Then black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that Lola sings is called "The Tourist," by Erza Bell. 
> 
> Thank you guys for being with me as I write 10 ungodly chapters of this story. Please note I completely made up those street names I have no idea what I’m talking about. And there's still more to come! I'm predicting 1-2 chapters left so please let me know what you guys think as our favorite characters' journey comes to an end. Love you guys~


	11. The Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Consequences linger by the air vent, waiting for the breeze, and Neil hears beeping alongside fireworks but maybe that’s the finale. And he takes a moment that feels like eternity to finally… breathe."

Pearly gates look a lot like popcorn ceilings.

Neil is breathing through a plastic straw that feels like a hand and it’s a cry for help that feels like a demonstration – propaganda for the weak-lunged, billboards for salvation – What does it take to breathe?

_Well, what will you give?_

There’s a voice that sounds like God sitting like stones on his chest, throwing pebbles at his Adam’s apple, reminding him –

_You’re here. You’re here. You’re here – What else is there?_

Angels dressed in scrubs surface from the walls like peeling paint and reach reach reach towards Neil with blue fingers and blue mouths and Neil breathes through a plastic straw and feels like a sinner, like a prayer left out too long, like decaying words, like –

His body is not his. It’s rising slowly, resting on precipitation and cumulonimbus clouds and spite alone. Redemption looks like white walls and Neil can’t remember if he’s ever been baptized or eaten pork but he doesn’t think the angels mind now.

The clouds rise up and Neil’s body is not his, but there’s a prick in his arm and pressure on his mouth and suddenly the straw is an oasis and he breathes like a hymn like forgiveness like relief like –

God lifts from his chest, a weight turned to gas, and pain takes it as an opportunity, a door left open, a reminder – and it slithers through the angels’ legs, between the rising fog, to press gummy teeth against Neil’s and swallow him whole.

The clouds are rising and Neil feels himself seize atop the skyline, Lucifer barreling into a body that isn’t his, and the devil has his eyes, a storm ripping through his ribcage, striking his face, raking his arms –

And God is next to him now, stretched among the mist, twirling fingers in his curls and she’s smiling but she’s blue,

_“It hurts,”_ he tries to tell her, through the pressure, through the teeth, through deliverance.

_That, my dear, _she says, _is how you know you’re alive_.

The clouds rise up up up.

And drop him.

* * *

The first thing he notices is the noise; a series of monotone beeping, low and unharmonious like the end of a bad song. There are distant voices, muffled and unbothered like conversations between steel walls and he thinks of wandering customers and wandering hands before he realizes –

He’s not where he’s meant to be.

His heart panics and starts again, assessing, but unmovable and maybe it’s the fog around Neil’s eyes but he takes a breath of air and contemplates falling back into the black on the edge of his consciousness. It’s like falling asleep but more permanent, like sinking in the Pacific and trusting the waves to catch you, and it’s so easy – when has it ever been this easy?

_Never. Open your eyes._ Survival is blunt and a bitch – an alarm pre-programmed on a broken machine, a faulty record, there’s one tune playing in this song.

Consequences linger by the air vent, waiting for the breeze, and Neil hears beeping alongside fireworks but maybe that’s the finale. And he takes a moment that feels like eternity to finally… breathe.

Neil opens his eyes to an empty room.

The beeping increases in volume, demanding attention and there’s pressure on Neil’s face (an oxygen mask) and his hands (wrapped like gloves and stiff like dead cats) and his face is numb and itchy all at once but it doesn’t register quite yet that –

He’s alive. And he’s not where he’s meant to be.

Neil twitches his feet to make sure they’re still there.

“Mr. Wesninski?”

Neil flinches so hard his head whiplashes against the pillow in protest. A woman had entered the room without him knowing. But it’s not Lola or his mom so maybe he’ll forgive her.

“I’m sorry,” she says unapologetically, “It’s good you’re awake.” She has blue scrubs and a tight ponytail and a clipboard and she doesn’t look at Neil as she assess paper and frowns.

“I’m Dr. Ross. There are some men here from the Federal Bureau of Investigation with some questions for you but first, I’m sure you have questions of your own.”

Neil stares at her in silence, he’s attempting to flip through pages of damage – the FBI is a bomb that can’t be processed, let alone unpacked and dismantled for the world to see on his itchy bedsheets.

“Right.” She says, and continues as if Neil had asked, “You’ve been here for five days, in and out of consciousness. You’re on a high dose of pain medication and you have,” she turns to another page, “Severe third degree burns on your face and arms with several lacerations. You’ve been showing signs of distress and panic so we’ve taken the liberty of giving you oxygen and Xanax for the anxiety. Are you feeling stressed at the moment? Are you in any pain right now, Mr. Wesninski?”

She taps on the clipboard with a final note, finally meets Neil’s eyes.

Neil is content to sink into the ground and float towards the sewer, find coverage, the bomb shelter, come back never.

The doctor hums, spares a glance at the closed door, walks closer with purpose. And Neil lets her because the fog says it’s okay even if survival is spitting insults in his ear.

She reaches over to check his bandages, leaning so she’s nearly eye level with Neil, before barely moving her mouth, whispering –

“And you have a message. Keep hush about it.”

Dr. Ross slips a half-folded piece of paper in Neil’s arms, tucked nearly around the itchy sheet, and removes his oxygen on her way up.

She leaves. Quietly and final. He wonders if she was here at all.

But the paper is still there along with the consequences so Neil manages to undo the fold with his pinkie after the door clicks shut.

_“I thought I told you not to get stabbed. Tell them the truth, rabbit.”_

Neil’s list of people he trusts begins and ends with Andrew Minyard. He’s safe. He’s safe. He’s safe. He knows something Neil doesn’t and he’s safe.

Neil shoves the small note in his mouth, chews with dry gums, and swallows it just as the door opens.

Two men wearing clothes too nice and faces too stoic walk into a room too small and it’s the beginning of a comedy and Neil would be laughing if he could feel anything at all.

“Hello, Nathaniel –“

“Neil.” He cuts the first man off. His voice is threadbare and frayed like roadkill scraped off the pavement, stuffed with cotton, told to perform.

“Is that so?” the man counters. Questing the lie or the inclination, Neil doesn’t know.

“It’s what I prefer.” He whispers.

He hums, fingers lightly drumming on a binder filled with paper Neil can’t see, “It seems you’ve had quite a few preferred names, Neil Josten. I’m Special Agent Browning and this is Special Agent Stetson."

He gestures to the other man who nods in greeting, more preoccupied with opening a sealed bottle of water.

Stetson hands it off to Neil, "We’re with the FBI.”

Neil hides desperation with chugging the bottle, thinks instead of gunshot wounds and bullets leading back to him. 

“We’d like to bring you in for a few questions,” Stetson says.

Neil doesn’t respond. Wonders instead if the dead can rise - did he ever have a plan?

Browning continues with the other’s prompt, saying, “You’ll be granted immunity for any violations you may have committed while under your father’s treatment. We’ve connected with Mr. Hernandez, who’s been concerned about your disappearance. He informed us you were a bartender at his institution and left without payment a few months back. We’re aware you’ve been running for quite some time. We need some clarification from your side of the story. In return, your record will be cleared and you’ll receive protection from the federal government.”

“You’d like me to talk about Nathan?” Neil sorts through the bullshit and aims for the heart. For once, he doesn’t flinch.

“Yes. Among other things.” Stetson amends, “You were found in quite a scene this past week. According to our own sources and Mr. Hernandez’s testimony, you’re not considered a threat to yourself or others. As of right now, you’re not a suspect in Nathan’s… business. Rather a victim.”

“And an important witness.” Browning interjects, “The investigations recceing the Wesninski enterprise have been in operation for many years, Neil. You could be a key witness is bringing closure to the many cases surrounding grieving families.”

Hope lingers in the air like a misplaced current.

“You’ll be released into the FBI’s custody this afternoon.” Stenson assures, “I suggest you think about the story you’d like share.”

It’s a sentence that feels like a threat. But Neil’s been wearing a liar’s clothes for many years. They have a right to be weary.

He wants to ask about the business owners on Foxhole - and Andrew and Nicky and Aaron and Andrew. Did Neil's sacrifice have meaning? Does it count as a sacrifice if he's still alive? He wants assurance and peace and his tongue on a stake.

But the agents spoke about Hernandez and his tiny lie and big concerns.

They didn't utter the foxes' names, their involvement. Neil refuses to add batteries in a flashlight so the spotlight rests on them - with their bloody hands and all. Where are they? Not here. And not with Nathan. Neil keeps this close, counts it as victory.

_Tell them the truth, rabbit._

Not about you, Andrew. But he will. This is the finale, after all. 

The men wait quietly, almost turn to leave, and nearly miss Neil's small smile that looks like surrender but feels like relief.

He nods his compliance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dudeee guys for real thank you for commenting such amazing things and your favorite quotes on all these chapters. I don’t consider my writing to be conventional and I'm just so happy you all love this story as much as I love writing it. [sappiness over] this chapter is shorter than my others because it's acting as a little transition and a break from the angst (I think you guys know where this is going) sooo stay tuned~


End file.
